


Pax Deorum

by EAWeek



Series: Queen of the Goblins [3]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Intrigue, Murder Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 121,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5638159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAWeek/pseuds/EAWeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>STORY COMPLETE.  Two feuding families, a blizzard of monstrous proportions, and a brutal murder: when Jareth and Sarah journey to the Kingdom of Aves for a royal coronation, they encounter more scheming and intrigue than they had bargained for.  Now Sarah has two weeks to find a killer before a most innocent scapegoat is put to death for the crime.  Sequel to “Semi-Charmed Life.”  Third of three stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third of my three Labyrinth stories.

Title: **Pax Deorum**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Two feuding families, a blizzard of monstrous proportions, and a brutal murder: when Jareth and Sarah journey to the Kingdom of Aves for a royal coronation, they encounter more scheming and intrigue than they had bargained for. Now Sarah has two weeks to find a killer before a most innocent scapegoat is put to death for the crime. Sequel to “Semi-Charmed Life.” Third of three stories.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Enya.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

_Prologue_

Nights in the Goblin City never passed in silence or even quiet: the sounds of discordant music, quarreling, fighting, celebrating, gambling, bartering, any activity conducted by day was as apt to be conducted by night. Down narrow streets, up crooked little alleys, all across the main thoroughfares came the sounds of snorts, shrieks, grunts, insults hurled, the cacophony of an impromptu party, the shattering of glass or crockery, the explosion of an experiment—or a dinner—gone wrong.

High above the noisy streets, in the castle’s main turret, the King and Queen of the Underground slept undisturbed. Or, at least on this night, the king.

Sarah waited for the small hours, waited for the deep, slow breathing that told her Jareth had fallen into true slumber. In the large fireplace, the night’s warming blaze had burned down to embers and at length to feathery ash. From the smoky residue, her sensitive nose could discern the types of wood that had been burned. In the last hours before dawn, when even the faint noises from outside the castle diminished to the occasional far-away yelp or rumble, Sarah rose from the large bed and slipped out from beneath the covers without a whisper of sound.

Autumn had deepened over the Underground these past weeks, and the stone floor was cold, but to goblin feet, the sensation scarcely registered. About her filmy silk night-dress she threw a cloak, more from habit than a need for warmth, and on bare feet, slipped out of the room and down the circular staircase. Far below, at the base of the tower, a single torch flickered in a wall sconce, at this distance a speck of light. Sarah’s keen eyes pierced the darkness, guiding her down to a landing and the doorway to her own rooms.

The queen’s suite, disused since the death of Jareth’s mother centuries earlier, had been refurbished after Sarah’s marriage to the Goblin King. She slept with Jareth in his room at the top of the tower, but here, she had her wardrobe and a day bed, her loom and spinning wheel. She went to a trunk at the foot of her bed and raised the lid, drawing out a small object wrapped in layers of velvet.

A round mirror lay within the folds of black, a precious thing made from the same glass as Jareth’s crystal orbs. Sarah carried the mirror to one of her tall windows, sitting cross-legged in the large chair. Outside, as she had anticipated, the silvery-white moon lingered in the sky like a great pearl, casting its limpid glow into the room. Sarah loved how the moon looked in the Underground, so much more palpably magic than Earth’s humble satellite, which she’d known as a girl, growing up among humans.

She held the mirror in her lap, taking care not to block the moon’s light with her own shadow. The moonlight filled the glass surface, turning the opaque silver into the liquid shimmer of transparent water. Sarah focused on the mirror, trying to project her will outside herself, to bring her desire into manifest reality—the essence of magic.

In a low voice, she commanded, “ _Reveal_.”

The water grew murky for a moment, then became clear. Uniformed men carrying archaic weapons marched in formation across what appeared to be some kind of field. A Roman legion? With a sigh, Sarah refocused her efforts, trying to envision the time and place of her own upbringing.

The army vanished. In its place, Sarah saw a bustling city—cars, people, signs printed with the lettering of an Asian alphabet. Tokyo?

 _Right century, wrong continent_ , she thought, concentrating on the faces of her family: her mother, her father, her brother, even her step-mother. The water grew blurry, and Sarah saw a cluster of penguins sliding down a lump of ice, diving into the water.

 _Okay, not even close_. She closed her eyes, feeling the swell of familiar frustration, the last emotion she needed. The more exasperated she became, the more random her visions would become. Jareth had told her again and again she needed to relax and allow the magic to flow out of her, but that was easy for him to say—he’d been using magic since his first moments of conscious awareness. Sarah caressed the edges of the mirror, Jareth’s wedding gift to her. Given time and practice, it might become a window through which she could observe the world she’d left behind, but right now, the thing only plucked haphazard images and half-formed thoughts from Sarah’s memory—things she’d read, seen in film and television, dreamed, or imagined—Sarah had never before appreciated the complex tangle of her own mind, its ability to store so much innocuous and random data.

The moon continued on its journey; soon, it would vanish behind its veil of predawn darkness. Sarah had chosen this hour hoping the moon’s magic might increase the potency of her own, but it only seemed to have confused the seeing mirror. She heaved a sigh; might as well go back to bed.

Glancing down, Sarah jolted, for a moment unable to breathe. In the mirror she saw a vision of a woman—a very, very old woman, impossibly ancient, her face so lined with creases that she seemed a desiccated mummy. Her eyes were closed, a few wisps of white hair clinging to a crepe-skinned scalp. A diadem of some type encircled her brows, a jeweled bird crafted of black onyx resting in the center of her forehead. Twig-like hands, gnarled with age, had been folded across her breast, fingers gleaming with gemstones, bracelets loose upon her wrists. Her wizened body created the barest wrinkle beneath the heavy, luxurious fabrics that robed it. She lay upon an extraordinary bier carved of dark wood, the wings of a ferocious eagle casting a shadow over the woman’s face. The bier had had been draped with more of that sumptuous, embroidered fabric, the whole catafalque surrounded by tapers in tall, exquisitely ornamented candleholders.

Sarah exhaled. The moon slid down the sky. The image in the mirror shifted and blurred, the glass surface becoming once again dark. Sarah would have no more visions that night.

She stood, returning the mirror to its velvet wrapping and storing it once again in the trunk. Then she made her silent way back to the top of the tower, mind awhirl with the image of the regal corpse. Had the woman’s death occurred in the past, or had the mirror allowed Sarah a glimpse into the unknowable future?

As she slid beneath the bed covers, Jareth murmured, “What did you see?”

By now, Sarah had grown accustomed to his ability to carry on a conversation when more or less asleep. She responded, “A dead woman. A really old woman. It looked like her body was laid out for a state funeral. She had a sort of coronet, a crow or a raven made from onyx.” Even as she spoke, Sarah recalled other details. “There were birds carved into the candlesticks, too. And gold eagles embroidered on her clothes.”

Jareth drifted closer to consciousness. “Aves,” he murmured. “Eucissa…” He drifted off again, returning to full sleep.

Sarah lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. Whatever Aves and Eucissa meant, she had a feeling she was going to learn soon.

**To be continued…**


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter re-posted (minor edits), 1-9-17.

_One_

The two goblins raced each other from the castle to the gardens, vying furiously for the honor of being the one to bring a message to the queen. The first goblin stuck out its scaly leg, tripping the second, which fell onto its face, its metal helmet clattering away over the flagstones. With a shriek of triumph, the first goblin dashed through the opening in the hedge, only to be accosted by yet a third goblin, who’d taken a shortcut—through the privies, by the smell of him.

Covered with dung and urine, the third goblin bore its message in triumph to Sarah.

“Such haste!” she chided, folding her arms and tapping one foot.

“My lady queen!” The goblin doffed his soiled helmet and bowed. “An envoy has arrived from the Kingdom of Aves, and awaits your displeasure.”

A messenger from another kingdom? Sarah’s only experience with any of the other kingdoms had been when she and Jareth had traveled through Aranea, and her memories of that adventure caused her now to have a certain degree of apprehension.

To the filthy goblin, clearly expecting some reward, Sarah told him, “Throw yourself in the moat before you go back inside the castle.” He made a face, and Sarah scolded, “Clear off, before I have you hogtied and washed with soap.”

If there was anything goblins hated, it was cleanliness, a preference Jareth blessedly did not share.

Surveying the herb beds, which she’d been mulching in preparation for the winter months, Sarah called out, “Wulfrun, Elfswhit!”

With alacrity, her two maids appeared. Wulfrun, the eldest, had skin the approximate color of pea soup, and a thin, hooked nose. Her eyes were like shiny black beetles, the brows curving upward, and the rat’s nest of her coal-black hair suggested actual rodents might be living inside it. Elfswhit, younger and shorter, had skin like nutmeg and hair the color of dishwater. Beneath upturned brows, eyes like twin spots of mold gazed down the prodigious length of a pointed nose. Where Wulfrun was scrawny-thin, Elfswhit was almost barrel-chested. Among denizens of the Underground, debate always raged as to which sister was the most perfect example of goblin womanhood.

Incredible as it seemed, both girls were Jareth’s distant cousins. His great-grandfather Octha had had a daughter, Fridmador, as well as a son, and the descendants of Fridmador had become the mayors of the Goblin City. Wulfrun and Elfswhit were the daughters of Spittledrum, the current mayor.

“Milady?” they chorused.

“Watch Elisabeth,” she ordered.

“Yes, milady,” they responded. Somewhere in the gardens, Sarah’s three-month-old daughter was playing. The baby could sit up and crawl, but usually she preferred to levitate. The castle and its grounds, the entire Goblin City, were her fief, and she explored every corner without fear. _Nice to have a kid you don’t need to carry around everywhere_ , Sarah thought. Wherever she went, Elisabeth was shadowed by Sir Didymus, but Sarah preferred an extra pair of eyes on her daughter. She didn’t want Elisabeth floating off into the Labyrinth unsupervised, and Sir Didymus might be distracted by a pigeon or a wandering dragonfly.

(ii)

Before going to the great hall, Sarah paused in a washroom on the lower floor, which she’d had installed so she could clean her hands and face after gardening. The goblins, unable to comprehend her dislike of dirt, never intruded. After tidying her hair and straightening her clothes, Sarah swept through to the great hall.

She needed a moment to register the messenger’s gender: female. The young woman was pretty in a gamine, androgynous way: body trim, the boyish-girlish face smooth and pink-cheeked, the hair curly and cut short. She wore a tunic, trousers, and boots, very business-like. Sarah’s eyes swept over her from head to foot: the excellent quality of the fabrics, the supple leather of boots and belt, the detail in the metal of the belt buckle. The robin’s egg blue of the tunic flashed like neon in the goblin castle, and the shape of a bird was embroidered in gold thread on both shoulders.

“Yes?” asked Sarah, raising her goblin-brows.

The girl kept a neutral expression, but there was a suggestion of scorn in her voice when she said, “I have a message for Jareth the King.”

“I’m Sarah the Queen. You can give the message to me.”

“The King of the Goblins is not married,” the girl said. Had she been told to expect trickery? Goblins were notorious for that sort of thing, after all.

“He is now.” Sarah slipped a hand into the front of her blouse and drew out her amulet: a twin of Jareth’s, set with a dazzling emerald that once had been a gemstone known as the Dragon’s Heart.

The messenger stared at the amulet. “My lady,” she said, “forgive me, but in Aves, we have received no word of Jareth’s marriage.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Sarah told her. “We haven’t gotten around to sending out announcements.”

The girl still appeared doubtful, but at last she relented. “Your majesty,” she said, “I am Paloma, messenger of Aves. I bring word to the Underground of the death of Queen Eucissa, our beloved sovereign of over seven centuries. Jareth the King, and of course you, his lady queen, are invited to the coronation of Eucissa’s daughter and heir, the Princess Petronia. The coronation will take place on the Winter Solstice. The festivities will commence on the new moon prior to the solstice and continue until the new moon following. During that time, the Pax Deorum will be observed.” With a low bow, the messenger handed a small scroll to Sarah.

“The king thanks you for this invitation,” Sarah responded. “As do I. Of course, we’ll be honored to attend.”

“My lady, with your permission, I will convey your acceptance to the Princess.”

“Permission granted,” Sarah responded with an imperial wave.

The girl straightened up from her bow. She put her right hand to the bird embroidered on her left shoulder. The air around her shimmered, and she vanished from sight.

Aves. Eucissa. So that was the meaning of the vision in Sarah’s mirror. She allowed herself a few moments of undiluted pleasure: she possessed powers of genuine clairvoyance. With time, she would hone that ability into a skill to be wielded at will.

The new moon before the Winter Solstice—about six weeks, Sarah calculated. She whirled on her heel and strode back out to the gardens, calling for Wulfrun and Elfswhit. There was much to plan, and not much time.

(iii)

“You told her _what_?”

“I told her we’d come to the coronation.”

Jareth lounged in his large chair at the head of the table. He’d been out all day inspecting a tin mine, and he plainly wasn’t pleased at the decision Sarah had made in his absence.

“Aves,” he grumped. “Petronia. A ginger pig, stuffed into a satin frock.”

“She can’t be any worse than Portia.”

“Not by much.” Jareth snagged a slice of fruit from a platter on the table: autumn pears, glazed with honey, coated with cinnamon and crushed almonds, baked golden. His favorite dessert—since her coronation, Sarah had been cracking the whip, in both the literal and figurative sense, in the castle kitchens. She had waited until the sweets before breaking the news. “And everyone will know about Aranea by now,” he said. “Questions will be asked. They’ll all be watching everyone else, wondering what they know.”

“So, we keep our mouths shut,” Sarah shrugged. “Nobody can prove anything, can they?”

Jareth pointed a long finger at Sarah’s amulet. “Best keep that out of sight.”

“Will anyone recognize it?”

A thin smile creased his face. “I’m sure you remember King Theridion.”

“I can’t exactly forget him.” Sarah had killed King Theridion of Aranea when he’d attempted to throttle Jareth to death. In the same skirmish, she’d killed Queen Portia, Theridion’s powerful wife. Both monarchs had been heartless monsters, and Sarah felt no remorse for killing them, but she did wonder—and worry—what justice she might have to face if anyone in the other realms learned what she’d done.

“Theridion is—was—Petronia’s brother. Even in its new aspect, she might recognize the Dragon’s Heart.”

“I’ll keep it in my shirt.” Sarah spoke with more bravado than she in all honesty felt.

Jareth’s one blue eye dilated at the thought of other things inside Sarah’s shirt. She favored him with a smoldering expression, letting a few moments slide past.

“Don’t you want to go?” she asked. For all her curiosity to see other realms, Sarah now felt small spasms of anxiety that she and Jareth might get into some kind of trouble for their role in the destruction of Aranea.

He grunted. “One entire month, flouncing about the court of Aves, simpering and cooing over that wretched termagant. The politics, the flattery, the tricks and deceit—”

“Sounds like you’d be right at home, then.”

“And the Pax Deorum—do you know what that is?”

“Peace of the Gods?” Sarah frowned. “So, what, is no fighting allowed?”

“No fighting,” said Jareth. “No magic.”

“None?” Sarah echoed, dismayed that she would lose a month’s practice time.

“None—it’s been the law for eons, to prevent mass murder whenever the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms come together for a wedding or a coronation.”

Sarah nodded. She could imagine it well—all those long-lived beings, the magic they wielded, and the feuds that must have percolated over the centuries.

“We can come home right after the coronation, if it’s too unbearable,” she offered. Maybe they could put in an appearance, schmooze for a bit, and then leave.

Jareth burst into open-throated laughter, and Sarah gave him a small kick under the table.

“For such a clever one, you’re rather not understanding,” he teased.

“Everyone uses magic to travel,” Sarah realized. “So, we’d be stuck there for the entire month?” Her stomach dropped a couple of inches.

“Now the truth dawns. All those nobles, cooped up together for twenty-eight days. Oh, dear, what have you gotten us into?”

Lowering her voice, Sarah said, “Don’t you want to travel? See the other realms?”

“Not particularly.” Jareth traced his fingertips along the inside of her wrist. He grew more serious. “Are you so bored already, Sarah?”

“Never,” she vowed. But with a smile, she added, “Sometimes it can be fun to see new places… we’re sure to have the best accommodations… sleep in a different bed. Or two.”

Sarah watched Jareth’s expression change as he considered this. She had been introducing him to the concept of sexual novelty, something he so far seemed to quite enjoy.

“Aah,” he said. Then his hand curled around Sarah’s, fingers entwining with hers. “There are bound to be questions. About you. Where you came from.”

“I can be mysterious.” Her smile widened. “Let them wonder.” Now that she’d gone and accepted the invitation, pulling out would be bound to raise even more questions and suspicions. Sarah felt a surge of confidence, a recklessness that she’d come to recognize as part of her goblin nature. She’d solved the Labyrinth and outwitted Jareth at 15; she’d taken on Theridion and Portia at 21 and defeated them as well. Surely she could navigate a royal court, a coronation, and curiosity about her own origins.

 _Hell, I survived American public schools_ , she thought with a wry inward smile. _I can survive anything_.

“It’s freezing there in winter,” Jareth grumbled. “They have the worst winters of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I lived in upstate New York,” Sarah told him. “It’s winter there ten months out of the year.”

“I’m not getting out of this, am I?” Jareth sighed.

Sarah lifted his hand to her mouth, kissed it. Her green eyes were dancing. “Not on your life,” she said.

(iv)

“Stop,” Sarah ordered, and the two tiny goblins ceased their running inside the metal wheel. She raised the needle on her sewing machine and drew out the sleeve, examining the finished result with pleasure. She was making a new jacket for Jareth, which she intended him to wear to the coronation ceremony. He had a vast store-room for fabric, bolts and trunks full, to which Sarah had helped herself liberally. She snipped the thread and turned the sleeve right-side out, comparing it to its mate, to assure herself the length on both was the same. The sleeves flared at the cuff, and she’d lined the black velvet with burgundy silk. Now she brought the sleeves over to Wulfrun.

“When you’re done with Lizzie’s dress, you can trim these. Burgundy silk ribbon around the cuff.” Once trimmed, Sarah would attach the sleeves to the body of the jacket. She had already given the collar to Elfswhit, who sat attaching ribbon to it with tiny, exact stitches, the needle flashing in her clever goblin fingers.

Sarah returned to the sewing machine and basted together the panels of the jacket, the pieces lined with yet more silk. The completed jacket, she thought, would look magnificent. She opened the running wheel to release the two goblins. “Back in an hour, or I’ll dump you in an oubliette,” she threatened.

The machine was Sarah’s innovation. She had found the dusty antique in one of the castle’s many rooms—God only knew how it had gotten there—and had had it brought to the workroom in her suite, where she’d cleaned it and rigged up the running wheel. Not quite as efficient as an electric sewing machine, but until she could get her magic working on a more consistent basis, it was easier than pumping the large manual foot pedal.

Until now, Sarah hadn’t given much thought to clothes, but she and Jareth and Lizzie were going to be in Aves for a month, attending very formal ceremonies, so Sarah and her maids had been working nonstop for almost four weeks. She’d also sent orders to a woodworker in the Goblin City to make a set of new traveling trunks, since most of the trunks in the castle were ancient, filthy, and beyond anything but a bonfire. As the trunks came in, Sarah filled them with clothes, everyday garments as well as the more elegant gowns and jackets. A cobbler in the Goblin City was working night and day to fill her orders for extra pairs of boots and shoes. Since they’d be travelling during the depths of winter, everything had to be warm—velvets and woolens, boots lined with fleece, cloaks trimmed with fur.

Until now, most of Sarah’s wardrobe had consisted of gowns designed for pregnancy and nursing, but Lizzie was weaned, and Sarah’s figure had returned to its pre-baby proportions. During the day, she wore a feminine version of Jareth’s habitual garb—gray skirts, white full-sleeved blouses, her bust supported by bodices of supple black leather instead of the vests worn by Jareth. She kept her crazy hair bundled into a net at the back of her neck. For dinner, they usually changed, Jareth wearing one of his jackets, Sarah donning a simple gown and pinning up her hair. None of their everyday clothes, she realized, would suit a royal coronation. In addition to clothes, they would need under-linen and accessories—shifts and petticoats for Sarah, hose for Jareth. From the odds and ends of fabric, Sarah was also creating a small wardrobe for Lizzie.

While there was still daylight, Sarah sat near a window, trimming one of Jareth’s shirts with lace at the cuffs. He would have a lace jabot as well. She worked with good speed, her small, thin needle darting into and out of the fabric. She’d made these shirts for him by the dozen.

Jareth avoided this flurry of preparations, which he regarded as irksome, but he’d nevertheless passed more than a few hours in the north tower treasury, where the royal jewels were kept. The staircase to the tower was hidden behind what appeared to be a blank wall, and only the king and queen knew the spell that would reveal the door. Jareth had been selecting things for both of them, the glittering treasures packed into nests of velvet and locked into strong boxes. Until they left for Aves, these boxes would be protected by fearsome curses, afterwards by locks with diabolical mechanisms.

Wulfrun brought over Lizzie’s dress for Sarah’s inspection. Sarah nodded, and Wulfrun added the dress to the pile in Lizzie’s trunk. Sarah finished trimming the cuffs of Jareth’s shirt and tossed it aside with a sigh. She had one major project left, now—her own dress for the coronation. Sarah had designed it herself, gold-embroidered burgundy damask, with long, trailing sleeves and a short train. The dress would be trimmed with black velvet, to coordinate with Jareth’s outfit.

The late autumn light was beginning to fade; the gong summoning the castle to dinner would ring within an hour. Sarah decided to tackle her own dress the next day. In the meanwhile, she would work on sewing warm nightgowns for her daughter, sweet little garments made from the softest lamb’s wool and lined with silk.

(v)

The night before their departure, Jareth and Sarah walked the paths of the Labyrinth, enjoying their last evening at home. Lizzie flitted about overhead, bubbling happily to herself. In the castle, the large trunks were packed and ready to go. Sarah had met with the castle servants, giving them instructions for her absence. Jareth had had a series of meetings with Spittledrum, who would serve as regent in the king’s absence.

Their breath came out in frosty clouds, and underfoot, the ground had frozen solid. The sun had set, leaving the sky a lovely cream color, streaked with dusky rose and lavender. Icy white and silver edged the leaves of the tall hedges. In the sky, a thin sickle of the waning moon appeared, like a reluctant ghost. Tomorrow would be the last day before the new moon, the last day traveling to Aves would be possible. Jareth and Sarah planned to leave with Lizzie in the morning.

Sarah had already spoken with Sir Didymus, telling him to keep his eyes on the goblins, Spittledrum in particular. “Don’t be afraid to call in Ludo if you need reinforcements,” she said.

“Never fear, good lady,” Sir Didymus had responded. “That rapscallion mayor shall not exceed the limits of his office!”

Now, as Sarah relayed this conversation Jareth, she said, “Which probably means Sir Didymus will be locked in Spittledrum’s dungeon within two days.”

Jareth snorted, “He’ll emerge from prison after a month with a volume of epic poetry written. And insist on a recitation of the entire thing. To us. At dinner.”

Sarah laughed, reminding Jareth, “If he wasn’t so dauntless, you’d be dead now.”

Jareth grunted in his throat; he hated the idea of being in anyone’s debt, even one as good-hearted as Sir Didymus.

Sarah ran her gloved fingertips across the hedges as they walked, disturbing a little fairy, which squawked a shrill protest, beating its tiny wings and trying to bite Sarah’s hand. She sent it flying with one flick of her finger, causing Jareth to rumble with laughter.

“I hate fairies,” she complained.

“At least they’re not Aranea’s fairies,” he said.

“God, I hope those monsters aren’t coming to the coronation.”

“With Portia and Theridion dead, not a chance.”

“Good. So I can leave my longbow at home.”

“Now, that’s a pity.” Jareth loved to watch Sarah with her longbow.

“Do you think anyone has been there?” she asked. “Or tried?” Upon the death of its queen and king, the royal city of Aranea—its citizens all dead from a combination of radiation poisoning and starvation—had been crushed beneath a massive glacier. The other regions of Aranea had survived, as far as Jareth knew, but only fairies and giant spiders remained alive.

“Anyone with magic would have felt the kingdom die,” said Jareth. From the hedge he plucked a holly berry, rolling it between forefinger and thumb. “They all know what happened.”

Sarah frowned, “I hope this coronation isn’t, I don’t know, a ruse, some kind of trick to get everyone together and give us the third degree about Aranea. Or trip us up into saying what we know.”

“Petronia’s as thick as a plank,” Jareth scoffed. “If she ever did something so devious, I would be impressed.”

Sarah grinned. “So, you’ve met her?”

“Just once. When my father was trying to arrange my marriage.”

He’d been fifteen at the time, Sarah knew. She smiled, imagining Jareth being taken around to all the kingdoms, shown off by his father. Raedwald, the previous king, had tried to broker Jareth’s marriage with Theridion and Portia’s two daughters. But typical Goblin greed and trickery had gotten Raedwald murdered, Jareth sent home in disgrace. He had been invested as the new king right away, after which his mother had committed suicide. Sarah knew this tragedy was a grief Jareth carried with him always, a secret corner of himself that he kept hidden. After a year of marriage, Sarah had yet to learn his mother’s name.

She wondered how her own impressions of Petronia—and the rulers of the other kingdoms—would differ from the opinion that fifteen-year-old Jareth had formed. _No wonder he hates them all_ , she thought.

He tossed away the holly berry and slipped his arm around Sarah, pulling her closer. She already felt a small pang of homesickness. _It’s only a month_ , she told herself, but the Underground, the Labyrinth, the Goblin City were her home now, and she hated the thought of being anywhere else.

(vi)

_The two children played along the riverbank, the slowly coursing water sparkling under the sunlight. One of the children, a girl, pointed to a dark shape bobbing along the surface. The second child, a boy, grabbed a long pole and reached out, tugging the object toward the shore. Their faces registered revulsion, then astonishment._

Sarah blinked awake, staring up at the canopy of her daybed. Outside the tower windows, pre-dawn light had turned the eastern sky from ink black to slate gray. What a strange dream. She rubbed her forearm across her eyes, trying to bring back detail. The two children had been dressed in bright clothes of multi-colored fabric, puffy sleeves and breeches, distinctive caps. As Sarah’s goblin nature had deepened, so had her new gifts. The clairvoyance was so odd, so maddening, so often beyond her control. She could spend hours trying to prompt visions through her seeing mirror, with no success, and then she would have a dream like this—a glimpse of an unknown place and time, whose significance she had yet to learn.

She sat. Maybe it was the effect of the waning moon. Her monthly courses tended to come on at this time, and with luck, the bleeding would stop today. Along with everything else, her cycles had changed. As a goblin—or a part-goblin anyway—the bleeding was much lighter and rarely lasted more than three days. Even after giving birth to Lizzie, there had only been a week of it. Sarah was glad of less mess and fuss. Still, she preferred to sleep apart from Jareth for those two or three nights, and when she did, she often experienced inexplicable dreams.

 _Well, I’m going to live long enough,_ she thought. _Who knows, I might have centuries to figure out magic and get the visions under control_. Sarah still wasn’t used to the idea of living so long. Her main hope was that she would live more or less as long as Jareth. The thought of dying centuries before him was too heartbreaking.

Sarah tossed aside the covers and hopped out of the bed, all melancholy banished. Today was the day they left for Aves. She snapped the fingers of both hands, and the kindling that had been laid in the fireplace the previous evening burst into a cheerful blaze. Sarah grinned. Raising fire—an admittedly more simple form of magic—why did this come so easily, while the workings of her own mind were still such a mystery?

 _Because your mind’s more complicated_ , she told herself, then laughed out loud. _God only knows, that’s always been true_. She snapped her fingers again, and dozens of candles in the room also sparked to life. She pulled the rope to summon Wulfrun and Elfswhit, then went into her bathroom to start the water running.

(vii)

“By the sixty-seven moons of Jupiter.” Jareth stared around the great hall at the three dozen massive trunks, all locked and strapped and ready to travel. “Whatever is inside them?”

Sarah slipped her right arm through his, Lizzie held in her left arm. “Clothes maketh the man, Jareth. And the woman.”

“In that case, we’ll be the best-made monarchs at the coronation.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” she teased.

He laughed. For this journey, they wore new travel clothes of deep blue and gray, sensible warm things. Sarah didn’t know whether they’d arrive in Aves inside or outside the palace, and she thought it best to be prepared for cold weather.

In addition to the trunks, a small retinue of goblins who would travel with them had assembled in the great hall, preening with self-importance. Wulfrun and Elfswhit were scrubbed clean, their hair untangled for perhaps the first time in decades, and they wore dresses Sarah had sewn herself. Neither of them appeared comfortable or happy. Jareth’s antediluvian manservant, Cyneric, waited as well, plucking at threads on his new jacket and grumbling beneath his breath. Around the perimeter of the room, Sir Didymus rode on Ambrosius, keeping the goblins in line.

A crystal sphere appeared in Jareth’s right hand, and he cast it out, where it enveloped the servants and the luggage. He uttered the travel incantation, ending with “ _Aves_.” The sphere filled with swirling light, and in a heartbeat, the entire entourage had vanished.

“Shall we?” Jareth smiled.

“Let me do it,” Sarah begged.

“If you get the spell wrong, we could be cast out into the Void and lost forever.”

“Did I ever tell you what I got on my SATs?”

“I do hope that was some measure of magical ability.” But Jareth produced a second crystal and handed it to Sarah, who gave him Lizzie in return. The girl was squirming with excitement, clearly realizing the momentous nature of this day.

“Goodbye, Sir Didymus!” Sarah called. “We’re relying on you.”

“Farewell, Your Majesties!” Sir Didymus responded. “The Goblin City will be safe in my care.”

Sarah tossed the crystal into the air and willed it to expand, which it did, enveloping her and Jareth and Lizzie. She repeated the incantation Jareth had used, and the sphere filled with that same shimmering light. The last time they’d traveled via magic, they’d been going to Aranea, into unknown danger, and the travel had lasted unusually long, due to a time distortion that was affecting all the Seven Kingdoms. But now, the travel was over in a flash, which she had to admit disappointed her—in spite of her success with the spell. In moments, the sphere evaporated, and they stood directly before a high wall built of fine-textured light brown stone. Heavy doors, wood reinforced with steel, stood open, guarded by two strong young women in woolen garb and light armor. Each woman bore a tall spear, and their serious expressions suggested they would not be trifled with.

When the goblin trio appeared before them, though, they blinked in obvious surprise.

“My lord?” one of them said, baffled. “My lady?”

Jareth said, “Given the immanent coronation, one would assume the city guards would be expecting guests.”

“Royal guests,” added Sarah.

Both guards bowed. “Of course,” they said. “Welcome to Phoebetria, the royal city of Aves, Your Majesties.”

Jareth and Sarah swept through the gates and into a tunnel with an arched ceiling. Sarah glanced up at the stone in appreciation. The outer wall of the city appeared thick enough to withstand a herd of stampeding elephants.

“So much for the welcoming committee,” Sarah said under her breath. With each word, her breath puffed out into a dense fog. “You weren’t kidding about the cold.”

They emerged from the tunnel into daylight, an avenue stretching to their right and left, curving in the distance in either direction. Directly ahead loomed another high wall of pale brown stone, the two walls enclosing the avenue in a canyon of stone. Beyond the far wall, Sarah could see a row of rooftops. This road must run in a circle around the outer perimeter of the entire city. The shade created by the walls made the air seem even colder.

Two more sentries stood guard at the inner gate, and when Sarah looked up, she glimpsed the wicked, pointed spikes of a formidable portcullis. Another portcullis was suspended inside the outer gates, she realized, glancing back over her shoulder. The royal city was well-fortified. At the base of the inner wall, across from the gate, sat a small, sturdy building. Smoke drifted up from its chimney. Sarah guessed this might be a guardhouse.

These two sentries also seemed astonished to see royal guests in this precinct, and one of them said, “Forgive me, my lord and lady, have you lost your way?”

“We’re guests for the coronation,” Sarah said in her most grand voice.

“Guests are being accommodated in the palace, which is at the center of the city,” the sentry told her. “This is the Outer Boulevard. You’ll need to go through the Market Circle and the Queen’s Yards to reach the palace. The nearest gate to the Market Circle is that way.” She pointed left. “About a quarter-circle around the city. It’s a brisk walk from here.”

The second sentry offered, “Would Your Graces prefer to wait here, while I summon an escort?”

Sarah had no idea how long that would take, and she didn’t fancy standing around in the freezing cold, trying to make small talk with these solemn women.

“We can walk,” she said with a tiny smile.

The two sentries bowed. “As you wish.”

Jareth and Sarah went left. As they rounded the curve in the road, out of sight of the two sentries, a series of huts lining the inner and outer walls of the avenue came into view. None of these structures was any bigger than the guardhouse. A dense pall of fetid smoke hung in the air, which grew worse as Jareth and Sarah approached the huts.

“Ew,” Sarah said, wrinkling her nose. “Are they burning what I think they’re burning?”

Jareth’s nostrils flared. “Dung.”

A woman emerged from one of the huts, and Sarah could not stop herself from staring. The woman wore plain, dun-colored clothes, which caused her to vanish into the walls surrounding her. The fabric of her tunic and trousers was very worn, and her boots were held together with strips of rags. Despite the cold, she wore only an insubstantial shawl. But her body shocked Sarah the most: she was bent forward, almost in half, as if she’d spent her entire life carrying loads of rocks on her back. The woman clutched a pail, and Sarah could see two fingers missing on one hand, three on the other, the remaining digits worn out little stubs.

At first impression, Sarah took the woman to be perhaps sixty or seventy years old. When she and Jareth passed closer, she realized the woman was no older than thirty. Her skin was in horrific condition, full of tiny round scars, as if it had been sandblasted. Her nose was large, streaked with broken capillaries. She stared at the royal couple with a blank expression that suggested all life and animation had leeched out of her body and mind. Still clutching the pail, the woman made an awkward attempt to bow.

Sarah had no idea how to respond to this grotesque obeisance, so she gave the woman a brief nod and kept walking.

The huts continued on either side of the road. The dwellings were dismal, plain, lacking in even the simplest decoration. The windows were very narrow, little more than slits, and from stunted chimneys clouds of that foul smoke emanated. Sarah could see a scummy layer of residue coating the insides of the Boulevard’s walls, a mix of soot and burnt feces. _Lovely_.

Here and there, behind doors held slightly ajar, Sarah glimpsed curious eyes staring out at her and Jareth and Lizzie. Only once did they encounter children, a gaggle ranging in age from five or six to about thirteen; in the older children, Sarah could see the beginnings of that bent-backed posture. None of the children wore clothing that looked even adequate: they lacked hats, gloves, coats. Their garments bore signs of too-frequent patching and repair, their boots in deplorable condition. Sarah, in her velvet dress and fur-trimmed woolen cloak, her fine gloves and fur hat, felt very self-conscious.

The children stopped their play, scurried to one side of the road, and bowed. The door of the nearest hut opened and a man appeared, his body bowed forward, face ravaged, and gestured the children inside. The children moved with a furtive alacrity that suggested they expected to be beaten at any moment.

Further down the road, a man trying to make repairs to one of the huts paused in his work. He lacked proper tools, and was using a large block of wood to hammer a nail, the work made more difficult by his damaged fingers. Sarah caught a flash of resentment on his face before he lowered his gaze and bowed. His face and ears were red from the cold. He wasn’t quite as bent over as the other adults, but getting there, and when Sarah drew closer, she saw that he was young, perhaps eighteen or twenty, but aged prematurely, his mouth drawn into a tight, hard, downturned line. Sarah shifted Lizzie in her arms, tightening her grip on the girl. She was stuck not only by the depredations of hard labor in these people’s faces and bodies, the meagerness of their accommodations, but their ugliness as well. Not one person would she have considered remotely attractive.

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at Jareth, to gauge his reaction to all this. He wore an expression of studied boredom; God only knew what lay behind it.

Sarah found the people’s quietness most unsettling. There were neither cheers nor jeers, no muttered remarks, just those mute, staring eyes.

Up ahead, a stone archway extended across the boulevard from wall to wall, creating a boundary of sorts. When Jareth and Sarah passed beneath this arch, they came into a neighborhood of huts in better condition than those they’d just seen. More people milled about outdoors here, their faces ugly and careworn, their hands stained reddish-brown, but most of them still possessed their digits, and they lacked that horrible bent-over posture. If they didn’t appear cheerful, at least they weren’t so haggard. Sarah exhaled, and Lizzie relaxed in her arms. Even the mask of Jareth’s face shifted, letting some warmth show through.

The brown-handed people leaped aside and bowed, and after Jareth and Sarah had passed, began to murmur in low, excited voices amongst themselves. Sarah filed everything she’d seen into a back drawer of her mind, planning to inquire about these people when she could do so with discretion. Up ahead on the right stood two more sentries, flanking a gate in the inner wall. The women registered that same astonishment when Jareth and Sarah came into view.

“My lady, my lord—have you been misdirected?” one of them inquired, a mild note of panic in her voice.

“Not at all,” Sarah assured her. “Is this the gate to the Market Circle?”

“Yes, my lady.”

The women bowed. Jareth and Sarah passed through an archway in another thick wall. Sarah noted the same heavy doors, the same iron portcullis at either end of the tunnel. And then they were outside in the light of day, a wide-open avenue so full of color and sound and movement and voices that Sarah felt as though she’d surfaced into clean, sunlit air after a plunge into murky, deep, frigid water.

Like the Outer Boulevard, this avenue ran in a circle, with structures built along the walls. These, then, were the houses whose roofs Sarah had glimpsed. But the avenue itself was much wider, enabling both pedestrian traffic and carts drawn by mules and small ponies. Here, the people looked happy, prosperous, well-fed, warmly dressed in layers of wool, fine leather boots on their feet. Across the avenue ran a second row of dwellings, most of them two or three stories high, and behind these houses rose another wall. Sarah realized Phoebetria must be arranged in concentric rings, with the Outer Boulevard surrounding the Market Circle, and the Market Circle surrounding the Queen’s Yards. She squinted, but could not see anything beyond the high inner wall except the occasional line of a rooftop.

Two more sentries were posted on the inside of the gate, and one of them said, “Go left here, and this road will take you down to the West Market Square. You’ll see the gate into the Queen’s Yards. From there, you can enter the palace from either the north or south gate.”

“Thank you,” Sarah nodded. She and Jareth proceeded on their way.

The walls surrounding the Market Circle were placed widely enough to allow sunlight, a balm on Sarah’s face. Inside her fleece-lined boots, her feet had begun to burn and tingle from the cold. The avenue teemed with citizens bustling about their morning errands, and when Jareth and Sarah passed by, people would pause to remove caps, bow, or curtsey, their eyes wide with astonishment. In the Outer Boulevard, everyone had dressed in those shabby dun-colored tunics and trousers; here, people dressed in a multitude of colors, and many of the women wore dresses. Shawls, coats, and cloaks kept people warm, and they enjoyed the luxuries of hats, mitts, scarves, and gloves. Some of the structures proved to be people’s homes, often with a business occupying the first floor. Through glass windows, Sarah spied tailors, cobblers, book-sellers, fabric-sellers. There was an apothecary, a potter, a glass-blower, even a maker of eye-glasses. Here and there, a dwelling rose to three or four stories, like an exclamation point in the middle of a sentence. The smell of burning dung did not intrude into the Market Circle; instead, a pungent, earthy scent wafted over the rooftops.

“Peat?” Sarah wondered out loud, and Jareth nodded.

A flash of color caught her eye, and Sarah turned her head to the left. A family with young children had paused to bow. The children’s garb caused Sarah’s breath to catch for a moment: blousy, knee-length trousers, tucked into boots, jackets with similarly puffy sleeves, neat caps. In Sarah’s dream, the children had been barefoot, without mittens—a summertime version of the clothes she saw now? The dream-children’s garb had been yellow and green; these children’s clothes were dark red and warm brown, perhaps reflecting either a regional or a seasonal variation.

One of the little boys eyed Sarah with a star-struck expression; she favored him with a smile and a nod, watching him turn red in response.

“Heartbreaker,” Jareth murmured under his breath.

“Right back at you,” she teased. More than one woman was giving Jareth second and third looks. As she viewed the faces of the people in the Market Circle, Sarah noted their comely appearance—maybe nothing more than the result of adequate food, clothing, and shelter.

Further along, the thoroughfare widened out into a thriving market square. Here were the stalls of bakers and grocers, cheesemakers and vintners, butchers and fishmongers. A tinker peddled her wares from a cart. In the center of the square, a large sundial rose above a pool; empty now, but a fountain might bubble here when the weather was warm. Around the edges of the stone basin, images of birds had been carved.

Sarah heard music, and her gaze followed Jareth’s to a large storefront, where a family sold instruments of every variety. Jareth let out a sigh of longing.

“We should do some shopping later,” Sarah told him.

“They’re playing a harp,” Jareth responded, his keen ear analyzing the sound. “Excellent tone. Aves is known for its master craftswomen.”

“Is this where your lyre comes from?” asked Sarah. A small bird, a lark, was etched into the wood of the instrument. Funny how she’d never before thought to wonder where the lyre had come from.

“A gift from Eucissa,” Jareth said under his breath.

“During your matrimonial tour of the kingdoms?” Sarah kept her voice very quiet.

“A token of Eucissa’s hospitality. Goblins didn’t merit an extravagance.”

They worked their way through the throngs of people, who stepped aside and bowed. Sarah longed to explore the marketplace and the rest of the Market Circle, but she suspected it would be rude to spend the day shopping without at least announcing themselves at the palace. Besides, she was freezing. Sarah had grown so accustomed to regulating her body temperature, she’d almost forgotten how uncomfortable extremes of hot and cold could feel. Her goblin blood did provide some protection, but icy fingers nevertheless crept their way under her clothes, a light breeze making the air feel that much colder. She could only imagine how freezing it would seem if she were still thoroughly human.

The gate into the Queen’s Yards was easy enough to spot: another large archway in the wall, guarded by armed sentries. Sarah wondered how long the women had to stand there, how many hours their shifts on duty lasted. Both guards bowed and gestured the royal couple through the gates and into the tunnel. The noise of the market square faded. Jareth and Sarah emerged onto a street paved with smooth, flat stones. Here, a quiet pervaded, not the sullen hostile silence of the Outer Boulevard, but the peaceful hush of privilege, broken only by birdsong and the occasional muffled voice.

“It’s lovely,” Sarah breathed, unable to stop a reflexive response of pleasure and delight.

One of the sentries posted inside the wall said, “In this precinct live many of the queen’s extended family. Are you here for the coronation, my lady?”

“We’ve come from the Underground.”

The guard was too well-trained to show any shock at the sight of the three goblins. “The Princess Petronia will be honored by your presence. Would you like an escort to the palace?”

“No, thank you; we’re quite enjoying our tour of the city,” Sarah told her.

“If you take this avenue from here and then go left at the first major intersection, that road will take you straight to the north gate of the palace.”

“Thank you.”

Jareth and Sarah ambled down the boulevard. Sarah would have loved to see the Queen’s Yards at the height of summer. This section of the city was laid out with an eye to aesthetics, large houses rising to six or seven stories, interspersed with gardens and parks, through which wound stone pathways. The trees were bare now, of course, the flower beds and shrubs bedded down for winter, but birds still flitted about feeders filled with seeds and suet. Sarah admired the houses, many of which had been built from a rosy-golden stone that seemed to absorb the sunlight and give it off as a warm glow. Painted wooden shutters covered most windows, though some had been left open to allow daylight.

From chimneys drifted the scent of fragrant wood smoke: no dung or peat burned here. Sarah heard a quiet clop-clop of hooves and through the trees, she glimpsed a splendid horse being led by a young woman to a stable. A blanket embroidered with the image of a sea bird covered the animal.

Each house was a marvel of architecture, designed with ornamentation, elegant windows, double doors of stained or painted wood, arched porticoes on the lower levels, balconies on the upper. Tall chimneys assured that smoke would ventilate away from the houses. Flocks of birds congregated in many a garden, and Sarah saw that a multitude of wooden birdhouses had been provided for them. In one back yard, a young man in servant’s clothes broke the ice in a birdbath. Sarah couldn’t help thinking that the birds were better housed and fed than the people in the Outer Boulevard. She also wondered if the thick walls dividing the city circles from each other were more to keep the castes of Phoebetria separate than to discourage any would-be foreign invaders.

At a small intersection she and Jareth discovered a park with another fountain. Here, the broad, shallow pool had not been drained, but had been allowed to freeze over, and two adorable young children were taking a skating lesson. They wore the same garb Sarah had seen on the children in the Market Circle—the same as from her dream—but in rich, luxurious fabrics: instead of wool, these children wore damask, their jackets and hats of velvet trimmed with fur. The young man who taught them was very handsome, bordering on pretty, with tousled golden curls and pink cheeks. His clothing was also sumptuous, but in a more adult style. All three wore leather boots with steel blades strapped to the soles.

The youth nudged the two children when he spotted Jareth and Sarah. He and the little boy doffed their caps, making elegant bows, while the little girl, scarcely more than a toddler, dropped a curtsey. Both children had white-blond hair and blue eyes; both looked as though they’d never wanted for a thing in their lives.

Jareth and Sarah continued until they reached a wide crossroads, where they turned left.

“This must be the intersection…” Sarah remarked, then broke off in open-mouthed astonishment. Gazing down the road, they could see in the distance another high wall, and for the first time, the royal palace itself, not a single building, but many buildings of varying designs, clustered together. Soaring above all the rooftops rose a high tower, pointing toward the sky like a long, thin needle. Sarah peered up at the tiny windows near the tower’s roof. From that vantage point, one must be able to see all over the countryside.

“Fantastic!” she breathed. She almost said, _It’s even more fabulous than Aranea_ , but she kept that observation to herself.

Jareth only chuckled. “They always have to have the biggest palace, the highest watchtower, the best and most extravagant of everything. They can’t abide being outdone. Every time the queens of Aves have traveled to other kingdoms, they’ve come back and added onto that monstrosity they call home.”

They strolled down the avenue toward the palace, which seemed to loom larger and larger the closer they got to it. On either side of the road, the houses also became bigger and grander, as if their status increased with proximity to the royal residence. The wind’s bite felt worse here, on the north side of the palace, and Lizzie hid her face in Sarah’s shoulder. Sarah adjusted the girl’s fur hat and drew a fold of her own cloak about the small, shivering body. Looking about, Sarah realized that in spite of the lung-burning chill, the ground lay brown and bare.

 _No snow—yet_ , she thought.

She and Jareth quickened their footsteps until they reached the high wall with its massive gate. Unlike the sand-colored walls of the outer rings, this wall was constructed from the same rosy-golden stone that had been used to build the houses in the Queen’s Yards. _Nothing but the best_ , Sarah thought. Jareth hadn’t been exaggerating.

The two women who stood guarding the gate wore the distinctive robin’s egg blue tunics Sarah remembered from the messenger who’d brought the invitation.

The sentries bowed. One of them said, “My lord Jareth, you and your lady queen have been expected. Please come inside. Our most profound apologies that you’ve been needlessly inconvenienced.”

“Not at all,” Sarah assured them. “We’ve been thoroughly enjoying your lovely city.” She kept her tone light, but placed an ironic stress on _lovely_.

The first guard led them through the gateway, set into the thick outer wall of the building. At the far end of the tunnel, they came to a small room: stone floor, stone walls, furnished with some good wooden pieces. A large doorway opened to a corridor that must lead into the palace itself. In a fireplace along one wall, a substantial blaze crackled, and three young women in guard’s uniforms stood at a nearby brazier, warming their hands. They all bowed when the royal trio entered.

“Aellenia’s been sent for,” one of the three said to the guard who’d escorted Jareth and Sarah. “She’s on her way.” Looking apologetic, she told the two goblins, “Guests have been arriving at the south gate, where their hosts for the coronation are greeting them and taking them directly to their quarters. We received word from some of the city guards that you appear to have been misdirected…?” She let the question trail off on a discreet note; it would be rude to imply to royal guests that they didn’t know their way around, or that they weren’t welcome to tour the city at their leisure.

“Not misdirected at all,” Sarah offered. So she’d made a slight miscalculation in performing the travel spell, but really, how was she to have known where they were supposed to arrive? It wasn’t like their invitation had included specific instructions. “Phoebetria is a fascinating city, and we saw it the best way possible: on foot.” In truth, she was so happy to be inside, out of the damned cold that she could have sat in front of the fire and not moved for days.

The guard nodded, relieved to learn that no _faux pas_ had been committed. “Aellenia of the Clade Tinamotus will be your hostess and guide for the month of the coronation,” she said. “She’s the daughter of Jacama, the Princess Petronia’s sister-in-law, so she’s now the queen’s niece.”

Sarah nodded, filing away this information.

Her keen ears detected the tap-tap-tapping of light, swift footsteps, and a moment later, a lovely, diminutive young woman swept into the guardroom, bringing with her a delicate whiff of something floral: freesia.

“Your Majesties,” she said, dropping an elegant curtsey. “Forgive me for missing your arrival in Phoebetria. My name is Aellenia.” She rose up from her curtsey and favored the royal pair to a dazzling smile. “Please feel free to call me Lenia.”

**To be continued…**


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-9-17.

_Two_

Jareth inclined his head. How well Sarah knew that mocking little gesture.

“Lenia,” he said, “allow me to introduce my lady queen, Sarah, and our daughter, Elisabeth.”

Lenia had eyes like pale blue diamonds, and their vivid gaze flicked over the goblin trio. Most likely she’d been told to expect that Jareth had a wife, but the existence of a child visibly rocked her.

“I’m honored,” she said, manners overriding her surprise, “to meet your lovely queen and daughter.” She went on, “Your luggage and servants have already arrived, and we’ve been waiting for you at the south gate. Then we heard you were in the city. My apologies that no escort was sent to you.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Sarah assured her. She tried to see herself and Jareth and Lizzie through this girl’s eyes, tried to imagine how their goblin faces must look. Lizzie in particular resembled an ordinary child, except for her upturned brows. She had Sarah’s dark hair, strands of which fought to escape her warm hat, and Jareth’s cat-shaped eyes, the color a delicate, smoky gray.

Lenia stood just over five feet tall; she carried herself with supreme confidence, her regal posture allowing her to wear her clothes with an added quality of panache. Sarah could not help coveting her gown: deep red over an ivory petticoat, trimmed with dark green and blue. The petticoat and stomacher panel, also in ivory, had been embroidered in red, green, and blue, which drew together the colors of the gown into one harmonious whole. Around her shoulders, Lenia wore a waist-length cape of embroidered dark green velvet, lined with silk and trimmed with fur. Her hair, wavy and a very dark brown, had been dressed up high on her head with exquisite enameled gold combs.

“Allow me to escort you to your quarters,” Lenia said, and the three goblins followed her from the guardroom into the palace. Away from the warming fires, the frigid cold of winter re-asserted itself. Sarah could see why Lenia wore that cape, even indoors.

“This is the north wing of the palace, which we call the Summer Hall,” Lenia said, gesturing around. Through open doorways, Sarah caught glimpses of rooms with shuttered windows, furniture covered in dust sheets, the fireplaces cold and dark. “We only use these rooms about three months of the year. They’re lovely and cool in the summer, but less pleasant now.” Her humorous expression, mouth quirking up to one side, suggested a dislike of the cold weather, and Sarah found herself smiling in return. “If the coronation were taking place in the summer, this is where everyone would be staying.”

As laconic as ever, Jareth said, “Not even Queen Eucissa could arrange her death conveniently.”

For a moment, Sarah feared Lenia would take this as an insult, but the girl burst into merry laugher.

“It’s more fitting than you might think,” she said. “Queen Eucissa hated summer.” They clattered down a flight of broad steps and traversed the length of another hallway, lit only at intervals with torches, so that they passed from pools of light into shadow and back into light again. Growing apologetic, Lenia said, “It’s not terribly cheerful, I’m afraid. We don’t like to waste firewood and candles in rooms nobody’s using.”

“An admirable economy,” said Jareth, and Sarah gave him a tiny poke with her elbow. Still, she was glad when they left the dim corridor and ascended another flight of steps. These opened out into a gallery, and Sarah’s feet slowed of their own volition.

“This must be magnificent when it’s in use,” she said, her voice hushed.

To their right stretched a vast chamber. Sarah went to the railing and stared down, then up. The gallery ran around the entire chamber at this level, with two majestic staircases descending to the main floor. Light filtered in from small glass windows very high up, beneath the vaulted ceiling. The windows on the lower level, which extended from the floor almost to the gallery, had all been shuttered over, but the proportions of the room could not be diminished by the dim light. Enormous wooden beams, carved and gilded, crossed the ceiling, which had been painted to resemble the sky. The ornamentation continued down into the walls of the room, painted to depict scenes from a garden. A huge fireplace dominated the far end of the hall. The floor looked like it had been made from pure marble. Three immense, multi-armed candelabra hung suspended from a massive central beam, and Sarah could only imagine how this chamber must look on a summer’s evening, tall windows open to the warm air, the gilded wood reflecting the light of thousands of candles.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” said Lenia, her face aglow. “This is my favorite room in the entire palace. When the windows are open, you can walk right out into the garden. Up here in the gallery is where the queen’s musicians play. You can’t see the windows now because they’re covered for the winter, but they’re colored glass. If you start at one corner of the room and work your way around, the pictures in the glass tell the story of summer, from when flowers bloom and crops are planted in spring, right through harvest time in the fall.”

“I’d love to see that,” said Sarah.

She must have sounded more wistful than she realized, because Lenia said, “Let me ask about it… we might be able to arrange a tour and uncover the windows long enough for you to look at the glass.”

Sarah began to protest this offer, then remembered she was a guest, and royalty, entitled to certain perquisites. “At your convenience,” she said.

The cold of the vast chamber discouraged lingering, so Lenia led them the rest of the way across the gallery, through another doorway, down another flight of steps, and through another gloomy, dimly-lit corridor. At the end of this hallway, a set of carved double doors was guarded by sentries, who nodded Lenia and the three guests through.

Sarah drank in the light and warmth. She could hear, at a distance, the sounds of voices and the faint notes of music playing. Here, the rooms they passed by were open, in use, warmed by fires and braziers, lit by lanterns and candles.

Lenia said, “Each royal family has its own quarters for the coronation. Yours are in the southwest part of the palace. My apologies that it’s so far from where you came in.”

“Not at all,” Sarah assured her.

Still, she marveled at how well Lenia knew her way around the palace. The girl took them through an endless series of corridors, up and down more staircases, through more galleries, more doorways, until Sarah was thoroughly disoriented. She thought, _You could fit the entire Goblin City, castle and all, into a corner of this place_. A couple of times, Lenia took shortcuts through rooms, sumptuously furnished and decorated. Some of these appeared to be parlors or drawing rooms, while others looked like dining rooms. In some rooms, windows were uncovered to allow daylight, while in others, they were shuttered to keep out the cold. Almost every room featured a large fireplace, and though kindling was laid out in most of them, the fires were not always lit. The housekeeping was immaculate; Sarah did not detect even a speck of dust.

Twice Lenia led them across bridges that connected different buildings of the palace. These bridges were covered, but arches on the sides formed open arcades from which activity below could be observed. The bridges connected the buildings at the upper levels, a vertigo-inducing height. The high walls created deep wells of shadow in which sunlight appeared never to penetrate. In these courtyards, servants scurried across from building to building, some of them pulling wagons or pushing carts. From the bridges, the varied architecture of the palace’s many buildings could more clearly be seen, and Sarah’s eyes, trained by years of college art and architecture courses, identified the older sections and the newer additions. Winter wind funneled between the walls with amplified force, and Sarah shrank inside her cloak. In better weather, she would have welcomed the opportunity to make a closer study of the palace structure.

When Sarah felt that her legs surely would fall off—and Lizzie had begun to grow fussy in her arms—Lenia assured her, “We’re almost there. This is the main hallway of the southwest wing. If you’re ever misdirected, ask to be taken back here.” The colossal scale of the palace continued in this wide corridor: the walls were lined with artwork, paneling, and tapestries; works of ceramics and glass and sculpture were placed at intervals on superb pieces of furniture. Doorways and entrances to staircases punctuated the endless expanse, leading off to God-knew where. They reached an arched doorway to their left, the wood gilded, guarded by two sentries. Carved into the wood over the door was a falcon with outstretched wings.

“This is the entrance to your quarters,” said Lenia. “The Falcon Suite.”

She led them through the archway and up a flight of stairs that curved around to the right. Tall windows set into the walls of the turret had been made of stained glass, and at this time of day, sunlight streamed in, casting a kaleidoscope of color over the white marble steps, like a handful of scattered jewels. Lenia fairly danced up the stairs to the next level, where two more sentries guarded another archway. A flag had been mounted into a wall sconce designed for that purpose, and Sarah was pleased to see Jareth’s standard there: a representation of his amulet in black, on a pale gray background.

They went through the doorway and down a corridor lit by candles in delicate wall-mounted glass lanterns. Lenia paused before a doorway on her left, which opened into a large and very fine room, dominated by a long table with chairs. “This is your private dining room,” she said. “When you’re not dining at formal banquets, this is where you’ll eat.”

A bit further down the hall on the right, she opened a set of ornately carved double doors and stepped back, indicating with a smooth gesture that Jareth and Sarah should enter the room ahead of her.

Sarah knew better than to make any obvious exclamation of joy, though the young girl in her skipped with enchantment. The room struck her as the very quintessence of grace and symmetry, as perfectly proportioned as her heart could have wished. On the wall opposite, a large marble fireplace was flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows, four on each side, allowing daylight to stream in. Sarah went straight to the nearest window, seeing that it gave out onto a private balcony, with steps leading down to a walled and secluded garden. The glass in the windows was clear, but framed around the edges with tiny squares of color. Set into pockets inside the deep window frames were wooden shutters that could be drawn at night. Swept off to either side of the room, drawn back by tasseled gold cords, were panels of heavy draperies.

The room was dominated by a four-poster bed in which Henry VIII at his most corpulent could have reclined in comfort with all six of his wives. The coverlets and pillows and bed hangings were richly embroidered and tasseled: red, purple, blue, green, bronze, gold. The bed was set so high that carved wooden footsteps had been provided on either side to get into and out of it, and Sarah saw that hangings could be drawn about the bed for added warmth and complete privacy.

The mantelpiece over the fireplace was of marble: charcoal gray, veined with pink and green and flecked with gold. The floors were of a paler gray marble, also pink-veined, and covered with thick, plush carpets. Large, comfortable chairs and foot rests had been placed around the room, along with small tables holding extraordinary artwork. A door at one end of the room led into a bathroom in pink marble, heated by its own small fireplace. At the other end of the room another doorway opened into a room where Sarah glimpsed tall wardrobes.

She turned in circles, nodding. “It will do.”

Lenia beamed. “Your servants are already here, and will be quartered downstairs from you.” She led Jareth and Sarah through the doorway at the far end of the room, into an anteroom, smaller but no less luxurious, also warmed by a fireplace, the walls lined with tall wooden wardrobes.

“You can go straight from here into the hall through this door, if you want,” Lenia said, pointing to an exit. “Your maids have unpacked everything.” Sarah could see this for herself, as most of the wardrobe doors stood open. She was pleased that Elfswhit and Wulfrun had done their work with such neat efficiency; tidiness did not come naturally to goblins. “As you can see, there are still empty wardrobes, for when the rest of your things arrive.”

This statement took Sarah aback. _More?_ She’d spent six straight weeks sewing, and she was expected to bring _more_?

As if sensing her guest’s hesitation, Lenia added, “Unless you were planning to have new things made here.”

“Of course,” Sarah improvised. Flashing a warm smile, she asked, “Can you help arrange it?”

Lenia said, “Absolutely… if you wish, we can have one of Princess Petronia’s seamstresses sent here now, to take your order. They work quickly, and your things will be ready in a matter of days.”

“Thank you,” said Sarah, aware that behind her, Jareth was close to rolling his eyes.

Lenia pulled a golden-tasseled rope that hung down on one wall. When a serving boy appeared, she gave the lad a quick, whispered instruction.

From the wardrobe, Lenia led her guests through another door and down two flights of steps. There were rooms on either side of the landing, and here, Sarah found Elfswhit and Wulfrun settled in one, with the elderly Cyneric on the other. Sarah could tell Lenia found it odd that a queen would inspect her maids’ quarters, but Sarah wanted her girls to be comfortable. Jareth looked in on Cyneric, who seemed to regard his clean, orderly room as a personal insult. Another two flights of steps led down to the lowest level, where the remaining goblins had congregated, tearing around their large common room, chasing each other, shrieking and hurtling insults. The cacophony came to an abrupt halt when the goblins spotted their sovereign, colliding with each other in their rush to make Jareth an exaggerated bow.

“I hope this is as you would wish it?” asked Lenia, nonplussed by the sight of the goblins en masse.

Sarah responded, “We’ll try to keep them from setting the place on fire.”

(ii)

Lizzie was ready for her afternoon nap, so Sarah had Elfswhit and Wulfrun take the baby into their room for an hour. Jareth absented himself on the pretext of wanting to explore the garden, so Sarah had time alone with Lenia as they waited for the seamstress to arrive.

“Anything at all you need or want while you’re here, let me know,” the girl said, as they sat in comfortable chairs, Sarah grateful to be out of her cloak and off her feet.

“Jareth and Lizzie and I can’t eat anything animal-based,” Sarah told her. “No meat, no eggs, no milk or cheese.”

“What do you eat, then?”

“Fruit, grains, plants, nuts. Anything that doesn’t come from an animal.”

“I’ll let the kitchens know,” Lenia nodded. She was too well-mannered to ask why. Sarah couldn’t have told her without getting into a lot of complicated biology. Humans could eat anything; goblins could—and did—eat anything. But for no reason Sarah could fathom, the mix of human and goblin blood resulted in a bizarre intolerance of anything that was not plant-based. “What about honey?”

“Honey is fine,” Sarah assured her.

“What about the baby? Is she nursing?”

“No, she’s weaned. She eats everything we eat, only soft and mashed up.”

Lenia said, “There’ll be a number of formal events leading up to the coronation, as well as special performances by dancers and musicians and theater troupes.” Growing animated, she said, “There are some really wonderful things planned. And of course, we can arrange for you to have a tour of the palace—the Queen’s art collection is marvelous. If you’d like to tour the countryside around the palace, that can be arranged, too.”

“Brr,” Sarah laughed.

Lenia smiled, “Yes, you might want to wait for a warmer day. If we’re fortunate, we might have a day that’s warm enough to ride to the coast. The sea is so beautiful, even at this time of year.”

“I’d love that,” Sarah responded.

“Tonight, you and the king will be presented to the Princess Petronia, and then you’ll have dinner with me and my family.”

“The guard said you’re now Petronia’s niece; is that right?” asked Sarah.

“Yes, my Uncle Tylas married the princess three months ago, although he’s been her consort for much longer. He’s my mother’s brother. My whole family is in service to the princess—my uncle, my mother and grandmother, me. Only my sister’s not here in the city—she lives out in the country.”

“Will she come for the coronation?” asked Sarah.

“No, she’s expecting her first baby any day now.”

“Exciting,” said Sarah, smiling. She filed away another piece of information: Princess Petronia had married her consort around the same time as the old queen’s death. Coincidence?

“Yes, it’s Mother’s first grandchild. Of course, we’re all hoping for a girl, but Alaemon says she’ll be just as happy with a boy.”

“What about the rulers of the other kingdoms, are they here?” asked Sarah.

“Some of them,” said Lenia. She glanced out the window, observing the sun’s position. “The rest should be here by sundown, before the Pax Deorum goes into effect. There’ll be a big welcoming feast two nights from now, when all the royal guests will make their formal entrance. You’ll meet everyone then.”

Sarah nodded. Encouraged by Lenia’s easy friendliness, she said, “As a newcomer to your kingdom, and a guest, I’d hate to commit any slight or inadvertently insult someone. Can I rely on you to let me know of any customs or traditions I should be mindful of?”

“Yes, of course—that’s one of the things I’m here for.”

“I know this will sound dreadfully silly, but is there a protocol for bowing and curtseying when we meet Princess Petronia? How is that done, when two monarchs meet each other?”

Lenia said, “The first time you meet Petronia, or any other monarch, you bow or curtsey to each other. And at the welcoming feast. That’s it. Any time after that, you don’t need to.”

“Do I need to kiss her hand?”

“Oh, no!” Lenia sounded bemused. “Nothing like that. Only a commoner, meeting Petronia for the first time, would kiss her hand.”

That sounded easier than Sarah had expected, and she stopped worrying she might make an idiot out of herself. She said, “Could I impose on you to look at the things I’ve brought? I’d rather not Jareth or I wear anything inappropriate.” Well, Jareth wouldn’t care, but Sarah would be mortified.

“It would be my pleasure.” Lenia hopped up from her chair, and Sarah followed her into the anteroom. The young woman made a quick inspection of Sarah’s dresses and Jareth’s coats. Pointing to the gown Sarah had planned for the coronation, Lenia said, “You should have the seamstresses take up those sleeves. Princess Petronia hates long, trailing sleeves. It wouldn’t be inappropriate, but I can tell you it would annoy her. As trivial as it seems, she’ll think less of you if she dislikes your clothes.”

“All right,” Sarah nodded. “That’s the dress I was thinking of for the coronation.”

Lenia could not conceal her shock. “I would advise otherwise,” she hedged.

Sarah cringed inside, wondering why the dress she’d fussed over for a week was inadequate. Then she barked a short, rueful laugh. “You’re a model of tact.”

“I’d suggest having something made here for the coronation, so that you’ll be in the current styles preferred in Aves.” Lenia ventured a finger to touch the burgundy damask of Sarah’s gown. “This is lovely, though. Once the sleeves are shortened, you could wear this for the welcoming feast.”

Sarah told her, “The embroidery on your dress is wonderful. Would it be possible…?”

“Oh, yes! These embroidered fabrics are very popular now.”

A polite rapping on the door to the suite interrupted their conversation, and Lenia hastened to admit a pair of royal seamstresses, mature women in gowns of white linen, their hair tucked beneath matching caps. The two women curtsied to Sarah, and once the Goblin Queen was seated and comfortable, they set on a table before her a large, thick folio. Lenia had also sent for wine, and Sarah sipped an excellent vintage while she perused the designs on the pages.

“These are winter styles,” Lenia told her. “After the spring equinox, everyone will change their wardrobes.”

“Hmm.” Sarah’s eyes roved over the pictures, which depicted one sumptuous gown after another, the sketches demonstrating how the look of each dress could be altered with different sleeves, collars, petticoats, trimmings. In addition to gowns, there were designs for short capes, like the one Lenia wore, and full-length cloaks. Each picture was identified by a number, and one of the seamstresses scribbled down the number of each garment Sarah chose.

During this process, she became aware of activity in the anteroom, and after she had made her selections, Sarah discovered the cause. More maids and seamstresses had arrived, going directly into the anteroom with trunk upon trunk of fabric in tow. They’d set up their wares, not only fabrics, but ribbons and lace for trimming, and more trunks of plush furs. There was barely enough room to move.

Awed, Sarah could only stand staring at the extravagant display of luxury. These were winter fabrics: velvets, damasks, satins, taffetas, including some extraordinary shot silks. The colors were deep, warm, and rich. There were lighter silks that could be used as linings and contrast fabrics. And there was bolt after bolt of embroidered fabric in a dizzying variety of colors and designs. Another trunk held bolts of lace. And when a maid opened a trunk that held cloth of gold and cloth of silver, Sarah nearly swooned.

Shaking off the reverie, she ducked behind a folding screen and slipped out of her gown so that the seamstresses could take her measurements, being sure to tuck her amulet down inside her corset. Afterwards, a maid helped Sarah back into her dress. The women made a great fuss over Sarah, cooing with praise over her coloring and figure, which the chief seamstress pronounced, “Magnificent.”

For the next two hours, Sarah indulged in an orgy of sensuous delight, marveling over textures and colors, examining trim like a spoiled child in the world’s largest candy shop. Nothing was too extravagant, no excess forbidden or even discouraged, and Sarah let her imagination run rampant. With the guidance of Lenia and the seamstresses, she selected fabrics and trim for each of the garments she’d chosen. No variation was impossible: when Sarah could not decide between two fabrics for the petticoat of one particular gown, the seamstress pointed out that Sarah could always use one color for the petticoat, the second color to line the skirt that would go over it. “And we can have the overskirt drawn back with ribbons, so that both colors show.”

Sarah was so lost in pleasure and excitement that she almost overlooked the efficiency of the royal seamstresses. Each fabric, each trim, each notion had its own identifying number, which could be cross-indexed with the designs Sarah had chosen. A couple of girls who looked like apprentices sat with paper and quill pens, making notes of every decision.

After the design and materials for each gown had been settled, Sarah then turned her attention to cloaks and capes. Lenia encouraged her to have a riding outfit made; Sarah would be a model of style even on horseback. And naturally, Jareth had to have splendid new clothes as well, lest Sarah outshine him. She chose patterns for jackets, coats, waistcoats, shirts, each outfit matched to one of her own gowns, so that they would always be coordinated.

One of the women took the measure of Sarah’s feet, so that shoes could be made to match her gowns. In addition to slippers for dancing, she’d have several pairs of fur-lined shoes “for everyday.” For the riding outfit, she would have new boots. Another seamstress ran a tape around Sarah’s head, for hats. Lenia discreetly whispered that the work of the royal _corsetière_ was unparalleled; would Sarah enjoy some new under-garments? Sarah, who had been rather admiring the line and fit of Lenia’s bodice, agreed, and some additional measurements were taken. After murmured conversation with the seamstress, Sarah put in an order for several new corsets and four dozen pairs of silk stockings.

At last the session began to wind down. Maids packed the fabrics and notions into trunks and began to trundle their burdens out into the corridor. Sarah lolled in a big chair with her feet up, utterly sated, the way she felt after a good meal or a particularly steamy bout of lovemaking.

“The simpler things will be ready in a day or so,” Lenia told her, sinking into a second chair. “The more complicated outfits will take longer. Everything will be brought up here for the final fittings.”

“So soon?” asked Sarah.

“Princess Petronia has a whole stable of seamstresses and milliners,” Lenia said. “They’ll start this afternoon and work around the sundial until everything’s done.”

“Hmm.” Sarah stretched, laughing at the wanton extravagance of it all. She felt as relaxed as if she’d had a good massage, as happy as if every feminine craving of her heart had been fulfilled. How different from when she’d made her own things. There, she’d felt the satisfaction of her skills and creativity, of a job well-done, but now she experienced the peculiar enchantment of being pampered and cosseted.

When the last trunk had been wheeled away and the chief seamstress had departed with a sheaf of papers under her arm, Jareth returned from the garden. He didn’t look as if he’d been out in the cold, and Sarah guessed he’d been downstairs with the goblins.

“Hello, love,” she smiled at him.

“Everything to your satisfaction?” he inquired.

“God, yes,” she sighed. “There’s something to be said for the life of the idle rich.”

Lenia made a curtsey and excused herself, saying she’d see to their dinner arrangements and fetch them shortly after sundown.

“Is there any gold left in my treasury, or have you utterly ruined me?” asked Jareth.

Sarah gave him a lazy wink but said nothing. Jareth had been alive for so long that he’d amassed a treasure Sarah could not have gone through if she’d ordered up a new frock for every hour of every day for the next century. Goblins hoarded their gold like dragons.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. Sarah felt a tiny qualm that she hadn’t even thought to inquire about the cost of so many new clothes. “The reckoning might be a little steep.”

Jareth threw back his head and laughed. “I can assure you Petronia won’t give them to you out of the goodness of her heart.”

“If it’s any consolation, they’re making things for you, too.”

“But of course. I wouldn’t want to be outshone by the brilliance of my lady queen.”

Sarah rose from her chair and dropped down into Jareth’s lap. “You can pick out my jewelry,” she said, gently nuzzling his face.

“As a consolation prize?”

“As a tribute to my astounding beauty.”

“You trust my judgment? I don’t need to consult the royal jeweler about the perfect gems to decorate my queen’s neck and earlobes and…?” Whatever Jareth had planned to say next got lost in the kiss Sarah planted on him.

“That bed looks amazingly comfortable,” she said when they parted. “Want to try it out before dinner?”

The murmur of voices interrupted them, and Elfswhit strolled into the room, Lizzie in her arms. The baby was fussing up a loud complaint. “The princess is hungry, my lady.”

Sarah disentangled herself from Jareth’s arms and pulled the gold cord for maid service. “Let’s see what we can get for food,” she said, treating Jareth to a smile that told him, _Later_.

(iii)

The Pax Deorum took effect at sundown. Dressing for dinner, Sarah felt it, a momentary weird dulling of her senses.

“Here we go,” she said to no-one in particular.

From the bedroom, Jareth called out to her, “I hope you’re enjoying Phoebetria—we’re officially here to stay until the next new moon.”

“I think we’ll live,” Sarah responded. She stood in her silk shift while Wulfrun laced her into her corset. Back at home, Sarah had only one corset, which she wore under her evening dresses. For daily wear, the leather bodice gave her all the support she needed. Constructing the corset had taken some trial and error, and Sarah had been pleased with the result; when she’d run away to marry Jareth, having to make her own underwear was something she hadn’t counted on. Her wardrobe for the coronation had necessitated the construction of more corsets; these were perfectly serviceable, and Sarah wondered if she’d been self-indulgent in ordering yet more.

Once laced up, she donned her gown, a replica of an early 1830s evening dress that Sarah had designed based on memories of pictures in a book of historical costumes. The snugly-fitting bodice had a portrait neckline, and the long sleeves were puffed at the top, tight from elbow to wrist. The dress was dark green, the full skirt drawn back to reveal a black petticoat, and Sarah had trimmed the whole confection with black ribbons and lace. Her hair was already curled and swept up with pins. For warmth, she would have a black fur stole to drape about her bare shoulders.

She swirled out into the bedroom, where Jareth lounged in a chair, already dressed, also in deep green and black. Lizzie was in his lap, wearing a pretty frock of green velvet, and she bubbled with excitement, clapping her fat little hands at the sight of her mother, so dressed up.

“Do I pass inspection?” asked Sarah, turning in a circle.

“Ravishing,” Jareth pronounced, taking his feet with an easy, fluid motion. On the table beside him rested a small box, which he handed to Sarah. She raised the lid and found a collection of jewelry in flashing black stones, accented by tiny diamonds.

“Ooh, onyx?” she asked.

“Jet,” he responded.

“We’re slumming,” she joked, turning so that Jareth could fasten the necklace. Sarah rustled over to the nearest mirror, where she inserted the metal hoops of the earrings through the holes in her earlobes. There was a small ring, which Sarah slid onto her right hand, and a pair of bracelets. Admiring herself in the mirror, she had to admit the overall effect, with her pale skin and dark hair, created a striking impression.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of Lenia. Sarah answered the door herself.

“I’ve come to escort Your Majesties to dinner,” the girl announced, dropping a curtsey.

“I believe we’re ready,” Sarah told her. Try as she might, she couldn’t get used to people curtseying to her. Her—Sarah Williams from Rosebriar Creek, New York, living in a palace and having people bow or curtsey when she walked past.

An incessant draft blew along the corridors, interspersed by gusts of warmth whenever they crossed doorways to rooms where fires were blazing. They did not have far to walk this time. The royal quarters were in the south wing of the palace, the entrance indicated by an enormous golden eagle, carved in wood over a set of double doors so large a tank could have been driven through them. Four sentries guarded the doors, two within and two without, and they nodded the party through into an antechamber.

Sarah’s gaze traveled in a quick circuit of the room, which looked large enough to contain her and Jareth’s entire suite. A substantial fire roared in the fireplace, the flames consuming logs like tree trunks, generating enough heat to warm the echoing space. Scores of candles in golden candelabras provided light. The mantelpiece and floor both were constructed of gold-veined black marble, the walls of gray-veined white marble, everything tooled in gold and reflected in huge mirrors on every wall. The carpets underfoot were works of art, the designs and colors superb, the texture unbearably sensuous. The only thing missing from this room was people: it was spacious, furnished and decorated to a magnificent degree, but apart from Jareth and Sarah, empty of occupants.

Lenia went to a set of inner doors and, after a murmured consultation with the sentries, gestured for Jareth and Sarah to follow her.

The room inside was smaller, but no less marvelous, and Sarah liked it better for its warmth and intimacy. The décor was the same—marble, gold, mirrors, glorious carpets, chairs and sofas upholstered in damask and velvet—but this room appeared to be lived in. A small cluster of well-dressed young women hovered in one corner— _ladies in waiting?_ Sarah wondered.

The centerpiece of the room was a large chair set up on a dais and shaded by a cloth of robin’s egg blue damask, embroidered and fringed in gold. In the chair sat a woman whom Sarah, in her previous life, would have taken to be about forty. The woman had brilliant vermillion hair—Sarah remembered well the red hair of King Theridion—and dark blue eyes, her figure lush with feminine curves. A splendid gown of gold-embroidered robin’s egg blue echoed the canopy overhead and made the most of the woman’s buxom shape. Sarah wasn’t sure if she would call this woman beautiful, exactly—her features were too ordinary, her mouth too comical—but she certainly was not someone who could be easily forgotten.

Lenia gestured for the guests to come closer. At the foot of the dais, the goblin monarchs paused to bow and curtsey. The princess stood and descended from her chair. Sitting, she had looked short; standing, she was Sarah’s height. She dropped a curtsey of elegant nonchalance.

“Jareth,” she said, planting her hands on her hips, “you sly rascal, getting married without telling anyone!”

“Oh, I’m a terrible spoilsport, Petronia. You should know that.”

Petronia burst into rollicking laughter. Her blue gaze raked up and down, first Jareth, then Sarah. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You were still a child when we last met.”

“I believe there’s a saying about fine wines,” he returned.

“Hmm,” said Petronia. “If that’s a hint, we did receive the gifts you sent, and we thank you.” A week before their departure, many casks of almond oil and brandy had been sent to Aves as coronation gifts for Petronia. The brandy was made from the Underground’s famous peaches, though not the hallucinogenic variety—only Jareth drank the spirits distilled from that particular fruit.

“May I introduce my lady queen, Sarah? And this is our daughter, Elisabeth.”

“A baby, too!” Petronia’s sapphire gaze softened as she examined the infant. “You’re full of surprises, Jareth.” Lizzie stared back at the princess with her fearless gray eyes.

“I trust Lenia has been taking care of you?” Petronia inquired.

“The best possible care,” said Jareth. “I’m several thousand ducats’ the poorer because of Lenia’s good offices.”

Petronia beamed. “Yes, I’ve heard your lady queen is being turned out in style.” To Sarah, she said, “I commend your good taste.”

“And I thank you for the services of your seamstresses. Your majesty is generous.”

“Oh, fft.” Petronia made a dismissive little gesture with one hand, as if accustomed to putting the services of her staff at her guests’ disposal. She said, “You’ll be dining with my husband’s family tonight. Lenia, darling?”

The audience was evidently at an end. _Well, that was fast_ , Sarah thought. Lenia led them back into the exterior room and from there through a doorway Sarah had not noticed earlier, concealed behind one of the large mirrors, indistinguishable from the rest of the wall.

Inside, a formal dining table had been set with a half-dozen ornate, high-backed chairs; judging by the size of the room, the table could be expanded to accommodate two or three times as many people. The table in its shortened state had been set up at one end of the room, lengthwise to a fire that crackled in another stunning fireplace. At the head of the table sat a woman in a severe gown of dark purple, her shoulders swathed in furs, a fur-trimmed hat tipped at a rakish angle on her piled-up black hair. Her eyes, the same blazing blue as Lenia’s, had been lined in rims of paint, and her mouth was a hard crimson slash. _Scary Poppins_ , Sarah thought, lacking only a carpetbag and umbrella.

To Scary’s right sat a woman about Petronia’s age, almost identical in appearance to the older one: dark upswept hair, vivid eyes, a small face and crafty expression. She wore a gown of creamy white damask, snug-fitting over her thin frame, all hard angles. Sarah found the resemblance among the three women uncanny, like living Xeroxes: mother, daughter, granddaughter. Sarah could see what Lenia would look like as she aged; only Lenia lacked the domineering expression and demeanor of her kinswomen.

The two women stood, beaming, and kissed Lenia’s cheeks. They curtsied to Jareth and Sarah.

Lenia said, “Grandmother, Mother, please allow me to introduce Jareth, King of the Underground, Sarah, his lady queen, and the Princess Elisabeth, their daughter.”

The two women murmured polite greetings.

“Your Majesties, this is the Lady Gannet, my grandmother, and Jacama, my mother.”

“We’re so pleased to meet you,” Sarah told them.

Servants melted out of the woodwork and helped the guests into the large, heavy seats. Wine was poured, and with smooth efficiency, the first course brought forth. Sarah glanced at the sixth chair, at the end of the table opposite Lady Gannet, wondering who was supposed to be sitting there.

(iv)

Lenia had been efficient in her instructions to the kitchen staff, and over the course of the next hour, a multitude of dishes was set before the diners. The serving dishes were of gold and silver, with enameled tops. The dishes and plates for the first courses were small, delicate things made of colored glass that had been etched with images of eagles, worked into intricate designs. As the courses progressed, the plates grew larger and more elaborate, made of pewter, then silver, the final courses served on gold.

The servants were so skillful and unobtrusive that no-one could have discerned, without careful attention, that entirely separate foods were being served to Jareth and Sarah. While Lenia, Jacama, and Lady Gannet ate dishes that included meat, cheese, and cream, Jareth and Sarah were served dishes that consisted only of fruit, vegetables, and grains. But everything was served so smoothly, the food so superbly prepared, that this distinction was trifling at best. Sarah did not taste one thing that displeased her; she reveled in each dish, her sensitive tongue identifying herbs and spices. Even Jareth looked grudgingly impressed.

Sarah had worried about conversation, but that flowed easily, due in no small part to Lenia. Adroit as a mountaineer, the young woman stepped away from topics that might cause discomfort or alarm to the guests, and so Jareth and Sarah were spared an interrogation about their eating habits, about Sarah’s origins, about the circumstances surrounding their marriage. The lack of questions did not, however, imply a lack of curiosity, which Sarah could at times feel quivering in the air, a tangible thing. In particular, she could feel the attention on Lizzie, who sat in Sarah’s lap, eating bits of soft food and taking in everything with her intelligent baby-gaze.

No-one mentioned or even alluded to Aranea, the dead kingdom.

Instead, conversation centered around the upcoming coronation and the plethora of activities that had been planned in the days leading up to the big event. Sarah stayed alert, filing away every nuance of information. She gleaned that after Queen Eucissa’s death, Princess Petronia had disbanded her mother’s council and had begun putting together her own panel of advisors, Lady Gannet among them.

The new queen would have official musicians, artisans, and dancers, the latter of which would be decided based on a competition to be held in a week. This was a topic of great interest in the city, because one of the pairs in contention for the coveted honor of Royal Court Dancers was Petronia’s niece and her husband.

“They won’t win,” Jacama predicted, candlelight flashing on her many rings as she lifted her wine goblet to drink. “People would think it’s unfair.”

“Besides, Ralli and Picus are too good,” said Lenia. She told Jareth and Sarah, “Wait ‘till you see them dance—they’re amazing.”

Sarah learned that in the days following the coronation there would be an ice carnival, staged on a large frozen pond outside the palace. The public areas of the palace featured a conservatory, where musical performances would be held. This caught Jareth’s interest, his expression of polite boredom growing animated for a moment.

“The Royal Gallery is marvelous,” Lenia said. “The artists of Aves are famous through the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I’d love that,” Sarah responded, thinking of her school and college art classes. She hadn’t possessed enough talent to become an artist herself, so she’d settled for a major in art history.

Jacama said, “And the Royal Library—you shouldn’t miss that.”

“Ooh, yes,” agreed Lenia. “There are books and maps, the whole history of Aves.”

“How fascinating,” said Sarah. She thought of Jareth’s library, dusty and cluttered and disorganized, her leisurely progress through its mysterious contents.

“You can borrow any books you want,” Jacama said. “Anything except from the Antiquities Collection, which are too fragile to be handled. Aves has some remarkable poets and storytellers.”

Throughout dinner, Lady Gannet said almost nothing. She sat at the head of the table, eating and drinking, her only conversation a few murmured words to the servants. But her shrewd old eyes took in everything, every detail of speech, vocal inflection, facial expression. Sarah made certain to employ the same polite mask as Jareth, but she still feared Lady Gannet could read right through her. Sarah’s amulet was tucked into her gown, but she swore she could feel Lady Gannet’s eyes on the chain, following it down to her bodice, speculating on what manner of ornament Sarah had concealed.

The main course on its gold plates had been cleared away, and a dessert course of candied fruits, honey-roasted nuts, and sweet wine served, when the door opened and in whirled a tall man in an ornate, bejeweled tunic, a short cloak swinging on a gold chain about his slim shoulders. His flawless and incredibly pale complexion made Sarah think of the palace’s marble walls and floors, a pallor emphasized by his ink-black curls. His sensuous, cat-like mouth was curled into a smile, and gray eyes scanned the room, flicking from side to side beneath long black lashes.

“Tylas,” cooed Lady Gannet.

“Mother,” he said, moving to kiss her on both cheeks. He leaned over to kiss Jacama, then circled around to kiss Lenia.

Lenia said, “Uncle, may I introduce Jareth, King of the Underground, and Sarah, his lady queen? Your Majesties, this is my Uncle Tylas.”

“I’m honored.” Tylas put a hand to his heart and made a courtly bow, a shade too exaggerated, to the visiting monarchs. He then took the seat at the end of the table opposite his mother. A comely young boy hastened to pour wine for the newcomer. “Princess Petronia insisted I join you for the sweet course.”

So this was Petronia’s new husband, the man who soon would become King Consort of Aves. Sarah didn’t stare, but she observed Tylas from the corner of her left eye. The most obvious and most inescapable thing about Tylas was his physical beauty: he stood around six feet tall, lean and elegant, and he moved with the assured grace of a dancer. His low voice also pleased the ear with its extraordinary tone, like a cello, a Stradivarius. And he was young, clearly younger than his wife—among humans, Sarah would have guessed him to be a decade younger than Petronia, though God only knew their actual respective ages.

Tylas dressed to suit his new station: black velvet of exceptional quality, the garments cut closely to his trim figure, the dark color further emphasizing the romantic contrasts of his hair and skin. The jeweled collars of his tunic and cape glimmered in the candlelight. Like all members of the Clade Tinamotus, he had about him a sense of poise and ambition— _a family on the rise_ , Sarah thought. Tylas waved away the sweets that were offered to him, and Sarah observed that he made a good show of sipping the wine without actually drinking it.

Not in the least intimidated by keeping company with goblins, Tylas struck up a conversation with Jareth as though they’d been old chums from boarding school days.

“It’s almost a shame about the Pax Deorum,” he said. “We’ve heard the legends of your magical abilities. We might have had a demonstration.”

“Indeed,” Jareth responded. “By the time the Pax Deorum is lifted, the only magic you’ll see Sarah and I perform is when we transport ourselves home.”

This produced a tinkle of polite social laughter. Lenia said in a low, confiding voice, as though someone might be evesdropping, “Speaking of magic, Mother will almost certainly be named Princess Petronia’s new Royal Weather-Worker.”

“Shh,” Jacama teased. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.” Her pale blue gaze settled on Sarah, and she leaned forward, white damask pulling taut across her slim shoulders and outlining her clavicles beneath the fabric. “And you, Lady Sarah? Have you any magic?”

Sarah’s mouth curved into its best mysterious smile. “I can’t rival Jareth, obviously,” she said, grateful for the Pax Deorum, which would keep her from having to make an ass of herself in front of these people. She bounced her daughter in her lap. “It’s too bad you won’t get to see Lizzie levitating. It’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen.”

This produced more laughter, at least somewhat more genuine. Sarah took advantage of the break in conversation.

“I must admit, I’ve never heard of weather-working. Is that a type of magic particular to Aves?”

“It’s also practiced in Sabal,” said Jacama. “Though perhaps not to the level of skill you see here. It takes years, decades to perfect good weather-working magic, especially the kind of talent it takes to control the elements. I’m still a decade or more away from that, and I’ve been practicing since I was younger than Lenia.”

Lenia’s head bobbed up and down in agreement.

“That must be useful,” Sarah remarked. She still couldn’t get used to the lifespans of people in the Seven Kingdoms, though she supposed she would, in time. It disconcerted her to listen to such casual conversations about centuries of life; where she came from, living to be one hundred years old represented a remarkable achievement.

“Oh, yes,” Lenia said. “A really skilled weather-worker can make it rain, can hold back a storm, can summon a wind that will send a ship right over the water. It’s a talent that runs in families, and it’s rare. In our clade, for example, Mother and I are the only two who possess the ability.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows, nodding.

With a warm chuckle, Jacama said, “Right now, I can predict weather, but as for controlling it… well, let’s just say I could raise a little shower that would water one corner of the queen’s garden, but not the entire thing.”

Everyone laughed again, and Tylas said, “You’re too modest, Sister.”

Sarah asked Lenia, “What about you?”

Lenia made a comical face. “If I tried to raise a rainfall to water someone’s garden, the only thing that’d get soaked would be me. I recently summoned enough of a breeze to make a few leaves rustle on the ground, and it was so exhausting I had to sleep for an hour afterwards.”

Tylas put in, “When the queen sails to Telluraves in the summer, her weather-worker goes with her, to assure their safe passage across the ocean.”

From her readings in Jareth’s library, Sarah knew Telluraves was a smaller continent to the southwest, connected to the main body of Aves by a narrow land bridge. Even in summer, the seas between the two continents were reputed to be perilous.

“That’s a weighty responsibility,” Sarah responded.

“One which I’m sure my sister can bear with ease,” said Tylas, his tone just shy of smug. Sarah had a suspicion that Jacama had downplayed her magical abilities, and not out of modesty, either. The entire family, even Lenia, had that sense about them, like well-fed cats purring in a patch of warm sunlight.

The meal began to wind down, the servants removing plates with dexterous flicks of hand and wrist. Sarah admired how they worked in such swiftness and silence, almost without disturbing the air around them. They entered and left the room via doors concealed in the wall paneling; Sarah guessed these must lead to service passageways, but the doors opened and closed with such speed that she could not get so much as a glimpse as to what lay beyond them.

A model of endless courtesy and tact, Lenia said, “Your Majesties must be tired.”

And indeed they were, Lizzie rubbing fists into her eyes and yawning into her mother’s shoulder. Sarah laughed. “It seems we are.”

They bade goodnight to Lady Gannet and her children, who looked like they’d be sitting at the table gossiping over wine for a while.

“It was so lovely to meet you,” Sarah told them, even as she thought _I can see_ _I’ll be watching my tongue and my back_.

The trio nodded deferentially, Lady Gannet saying, “It was our pleasure.”

Out in the large drawing room, the fire had burned lower, and only about a third of the candles remained lit. The rest had been snuffed out. The entire room had a drowsy feeling to it, the sense that the royal occupants of these rooms were getting ready to retire for the night.

“Thank you for the lovely dinner,” Sarah told Lenia.

“As Grandmother said, it’s our pleasure—and honor.”

As they were turning to leave, a commotion from within the queen’s quarters startled them. Sarah’s keen ears picked up the sound of a woman’s scolding voice. Lenia’s expression grew pained, and she increased her pace, as if anxious to remove her guests from the premises with alacrity, but she was too late. The door to Petronia’s presence chamber burst open, and a young girl came tearing out, half-dressed, hair damp, and chortling with unhinged laughter.

“Lady Cassina!” called a woman’s voice. “Lady Cassina, where are you—?”

A middle-aged woman appeared on the threshold, jolting with dismay at the sight of Petronia’s guests. The girl had gone skipping across the carpets, and when she spotted Jareth and Sarah, their upturned brows, their goblin faces, she let out an earsplitting shriek.

“Goblins!” she screamed. “Call the watch! Goblins in the castle!”

“For pity’s sake!” the older woman—some kind of nursemaid or nanny?—dashed across the room, putting an arm around the girl. “Come back inside; it’s your bedtime!”

“Goblins!” The girl’s eyes were wild, filling with frightened childish tears. “Make them go away!”

“Those are royal guests; you shouldn’t speak to them so!”

Sarah couldn’t help staring at the girl. She appeared to be a teenager, perhaps not much younger than Lenia, but her brown eyes and expression held the vacancy of a simpleton. She was tall and curvaceous, her skin creamy-white, soft cheeks flushed pink, her hair a tangled mass of brunette curls. She wore a silk shift and looked like she’d just come from a bath. She would have been lovely had her beauty been animated by intelligence, but she gave off the air of an overgrown toddler.

As Jareth and Sarah watched, the gentle nurse steered the girl back inside, shutting the door behind them.

“Please forgive her,” Lenia said, her voice quiet. “She gets excitable sometimes, especially when her usual routines are disrupted, and well, you can guess what the past few weeks have been like.”

“It’s all right,” Sarah managed. She wanted to ask who the girl was, but didn’t know if politesse permitted the question.

Lenia sighed, aware there would be no keeping secrets.

“That’s the Lady Cassina,” she said. “Soon to be the Princess Cassina. She’s Petronia’s daughter.”

**To be continued…**


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-9-17.

_Three_

The return to their rooms proceeded in silence. Nobody felt like conversation. Sarah busied herself with Lizzie, who by now had fallen sound asleep. Lenia’s well-controlled expression still betrayed embarrassment, chagrin, mortification.

All around them, the palace was settling down for the night. Rooms were darkened, fires banked and candles snuffed. The cold was pervasive, and Sarah was grateful for the warm furs about her bare shoulders, and for the extra warmth that Lizzie’s small body gave off.

At the doors to the room, Lenia bade them goodnight. “If you ring for service in the morning, someone can come fetch me.”

Wulfrun and Elfswhit had been preparing the great bed, turning down covers and sweeping the sheets with a long-handled copper bedwarmer full of hot coals. Wulfrun took the baby downstairs to get her settled, while Elfswhit helped Sarah undress behind a tall folding screen; likewise, Cyneric had emerged to help Jareth disrobe. Sarah vanished into the pink marble bathroom to enjoy a leisurely wash, then she sat in a chair while Elfswhit unpinned and brushed out her hair. When she emerged, the fire had been banked, most of the candles extinguished. The heavy wooden shutters had been rolled across the windows, and the thick draperies had been let down, covering the entire wall. Despite the size of the room, its proportions felt smaller with the windows concealed. In her bare feet, Sarah could feel the chill of the marble floor, even through the carpeting. She hastened up the stepladder and into the bed. The servants withdrew. Jareth drew the hangings around the ornate frame, enclosing the bed in cozy darkness.

They embraced beneath the multitude of covers. The sheets were of silk, the many blankets of softest cashmere wool, the quilted duvet plump with down, all topped with a heavy coverlet of velvet and damask, edged with fur. Beneath their heads, silk sheaths swathed dense, down-filled pillows. Sarah felt like an almond encased in a decadent chocolate truffle.

All the nervous tension of the day seemed to leave her body at once, and she broke into a spate of giggles. Jareth made a soft noise in his throat, then he, too, was laughing so hard his entire body shook.

“Oh, my,” Sarah managed when she could speak again, dizzy with the relief of not constantly guarding her words, her voice, her expression.

“Remember, you have only yourself to blame.”

She goosed him gently beneath his ribs. After a space of time, they both stopped laughing. But they lay awake, unable to sleep; for one thing, the darkness within the canopied, curtained bed was absolute. Sarah found the quiet unnerving: she’d grown accustomed to the noises of the Goblin City. Jareth’s hand was on her thigh, stroking the skin with a kind of abstraction, but Sarah could tell his thoughts roamed far from carnality.

“So, what’s wrong with the girl?” she asked.

“A half-wit,” Jareth pronounced. “It’s staggering that Petronia acknowledges her. Imagine the blow to her vanity.”

“Are there any other kids?”

He managed to shrug even while lying down. “I wasn’t keeping count.”

“But surely there must have been announcements?” Sarah persisted.

“If there were, I didn’t pay them any notice.”

Sarah fought the urge to sigh; how like Jareth not to be concerned with the affairs of anyone but himself.

“So, assuming there’s no other kids… who’s going to inherit when Petronia dies?”

“Perhaps she fancies she can get herself another brat from that strutting popinjay she’s married.”

Sarah had to grin at Jareth’s assessment of Tylas. “They only just got married. So he can’t be Cassina’s father.”

“No, I believe there was another hapless beau, some centuries past.”

“Not you?” Sarah teased, although she knew that wouldn’t have worked, as neither monarch could have left their respective kingdoms.

Jareth rumbled with laughter. “There were two younger sisters. One is the Duchess of Telluraves. It was the youngest who interested my father—a girl of no title, no real importance in her own kingdom, who old Eucissa would have packed off to marry a goblin without a qualm.”

“And that didn’t work out, obviously.”

“She was a contingency, in the event of the Aranea contract falling through.”

And fall through it had—ending in the murder of Jareth’s father.

“So if Tylas and Petronia can’t have kids, the crown would go to… her younger sister?”

“The Duchess,” Jareth confirmed. “A possibility which I’m sure doesn’t sit well with Petronia. I remember they couldn’t tolerate each other.”

“How old was Petronia when you met her?”

Jareth said, “She’s older than me by five years, but don’t you remind her of that. She was the same at twenty as she is now: a loudmouthed, aggressive, ill-tempered termagant. Ferocious red hair, and some fool had stuffed her into a pink satin frock when the family received me and Raedwald. She was hideous, a ginger pig.”

Sarah had no idea how the fertility of these people worked, but Petronia might still be young enough to have another child.

“I’m just surprised she didn’t try to have another kid.”

“She may have. I’m hardly going to interrogate her dynastic intentions.”

Sarah laughed. “Me neither.” Wiggling closer to Jareth, she asked, “So, who else might you have married?”

“Eutheria was the other kingdom with a spare daughter of marrying age. But their only real resource is the horses they breed. Her dowry would’ve been a stable full of the things, which Raedwald had no use for. No, he had his mind set on mining rights in the Jeweled Caverns, and that was his doom.”

Sarah remembered well the jeweled caverns of Aranea, how the gemstones exerted a seductive, addictive pull over anyone who beheld their otherworldly beauty. The emerald in her amulet, the Dragon’s Heart, had been mined from the caverns.

“Are you glad now that didn’t work out? Marrying those two princesses?”

Jareth kissed between her eyebrows. “Yes,” he whispered, his lips working their way from the bridge of her nose to her mouth. Sarah pressed herself against him more tightly, all conversation for the moment forgotten.

(ii)

Some untold span of time later, Sarah turned over in her sleep, then jolted awake from contact with the icy sheets. She sat upright. It was so cold! Even in the pitch darkness, she knew her breath was puffing out in clouds. At home, she would have raised a small fire with her hand, but with the Pax Deorum in effect, any fire would have to be kindled the old-fashioned way, and Sarah was loath to leave the bed. She wiggled back into the circle of warmth created by their two bodies, tightened the many layers of covers about herself, and willed her mind back into slumber.

Just as she drifted over the border into sleep, Sarah thought of the people living in the outer circle of the city, passing night after night in this brutal cold, with only their threadbare clothing for warmth, dung to fuel their fires, and those crude huts for shelter.

(iii)

When Sarah opened her eyes again, the inky darkness had given way to dim light. The bed hangings were still drawn, but Sarah was alone beneath the covers. Jareth must already be awake. She sighed and stretched. The air temperature had improved from freezing to a more ordinary cold. Sarah could hear the faint crackle of a merry fire and smell the fragrant smoke of wood burning. With reluctance, she sat up, wiggled herself over to the edge of the vast mattress, and ventured out from behind the curtains. Elfswhit had made herself comfortable in a chair by the fire. Wulfrun was nowhere to be seen, perhaps minding Lizzie.

In the bathroom, another fire blazed, and a tall, elegant brazier provided even more heat. In the glorious marble tub, a hot bath had been drawn for Sarah. She stripped off her nightgown and sank into the scented water, reveling in the decadent luxury. A moment later, Elfswhit knocked, and Sarah bade her come in. _How did I ever get along all those years without a personal maid?_ Sarah wondered as Elfwshit scrubbed her hair with strong goblin-fingers. The almond-scented soap caused Sarah a pang of homesickness for the Underground. Once out of the tub, Sarah sat wrapped in towels by the fire while Elfswhit combed and towel-dried the queen’s black mane, then dressed it up in a formal coronet of braids. Sarah slipped into silk stockings and a clean silk shift, then turned so that Elfswhit could lace up her corset.

Out in the anteroom, Sarah stood before the tall wardrobes, fussing in a mild agony of indecision over which dress to wear. She couldn’t help a surge of impatience for her new things, which Petronia’s seamstresses must now be hard at work sewing. She settled at last on a rich bronze silk with long sleeves and creamy lace trim, making sure that her amulet was well-concealed between bodice and corset. She had originally intended this gown for evening wear, but the previous day had taught her that it would only be formal enough for daytime. Elfswhit brought out the case of everyday jewelry, and Sarah selected a topaz set, with gold combs for her hair. A fur wrap and silk shoes completed the outfit.

“Where is everyone?” asked Sarah, inspecting herself in the tall mirror.

“Breakfasting in the dining room, my lady,” Elfswhit told her.

Sarah only half-listened to this simple sentence, stricken by a sudden, horrible fear that other guests might not think her dressed fashionably enough, or that one of the other women might be considered more beautiful than her. A moment later, Sarah was scolding herself for such ridiculous vanity, but nevertheless, the worry persisted.

_Lenia said two days_ , she told herself, squaring her shoulders and sweeping out of the room. _Hopefully by tomorrow morning, they’ll at least be ready for a fitting_. She couldn’t wait to see herself in those clothes.

Candles in glass lamps lit the long corridor. For the first time, Sarah wondered about the doors on the opposite side of the hallway, what they led to. In particular, there was another set of double doors directly across the entrance to her suite, identical in appearance. Sarah pushed down the handle and found the door unlocked, so she swung it forward a few inches and peered inside.

The room was a virtual twin of the one she and Jareth occupied, only the windows were shuttered and draped, the fireplace empty and cold, the furniture covered with sheets, like weird, ghostly clones of the furniture across the way. Sarah stepped inside, seeing the door to an anteroom full of tall, wooden wardrobes at one end of the large room, the door to a pink marble bathroom at the other. Sarah felt momentarily baffled at why these rooms weren’t also occupied for the coronation. Perhaps it would be considered déclassé to house more than one royal family in the same quarters.

Without lights or a fire, the suite was cold enough to make Sarah’s eyes water, and she hastened back the way she’d come, pulling shut the door. She continued down the hallway, Elfswhit in her train, finding the dining room lively with activity and warm with the scents of breakfast. Sarah hadn’t even been thinking about food until now, but all at once she was ravenous.

“If you’d been any later, it would be lunch,” Jareth taunted. He wore his everyday garb of white, gray, and black, though everything was new, the shirt embroidered by Sarah.

“Whose fault is it I was so tired?” Sarah rustled over to give him a kiss, then sat in a chair opposite. Jareth and Lizzie must have finished their meal, because Jareth was bouncing the little girl on his knee, causing her to chortle with happiness. Wulfrun sat nearby, finishing her breakfast. The long table was set with gilt-edged silver plate. Tall tapers burned in candlesticks fashioned of twisted silver ropes; Sarah counted eight running down the length of the table. A sideboard was laden with food, enough to keep a family for a week. And yet, Jareth, Sarah, and their two maids were the only adults breakfasting there. A dozen empty chairs stood waiting, as if for a dinner party that would never happen. In the large fireplace, a marvelous blaze crackled.

A half-dozen pretty young lads in spotless tunics and trousers emerged from a door concealed in the paneling. They picked up dishes from the sideboard and paraded past Sarah, bowing as they offered her one delectable treat after another. Soon her plate was piled high with fruit, slices of warm toasted bread, and more of those delicious candied nuts. One of the boys set down a separate dish of warm, porridge-like cooked grains. Another lad filled her drinking goblet with cold, sweet, fruity wine. On the table were pots of honey and a dozen different kinds of preserved fruits. Sarah coated her first piece of toast with fruit and stirred honey into her hot cereal. She observed that images of falcons had been etched into the plate, the serving dishes, the utensils.

“Is everything to your liking, my lady queen?” one of the boys inquired.

“It’s lovely,” Sarah assured him.

As she began to eat, most of the boys melted back behind the service door. Two of them stood at attention on either end of the sideboard, and the moment Sarah’s plate emptied, the parade of foods began again. Sarah ate until she was fairly gorged. Incredible to think she and Jareth would have only bread and honey and perhaps a handful of nuts for breakfast, with cold water to drink. Wine was a luxury they enjoyed mainly at dinner. And yet Jareth sat lolling in his chair, sated, seeing nothing ridiculous about this meal, nothing wasteful.

When Sarah could not eat another mouthful, Lenia appeared in the doorway. She curtsied and swept into the room. Sarah tried not to envy the girl’s superb black and gold brocade gown, the matching cape about her shoulders.

After some pleasant chit-chat about the food—Lenia was responsible for the goblin monarchs’ contentment, after all—she asked, “Would Your Majesties enjoy a tour of the conservatory this morning?”

“We’d love to see the conservatory,” Sarah told her. She handed Lizzie over to the two maids, instructing them, “If it isn’t too cold, she can play outside in the garden for a while,” and then she and Jareth followed their hostess out of the Falcon Suite.

The conservatory took up most of a stunning, rococo building in the southeast part of the palace. Lenia was in her element, eyes alive with excitement. “This is one of the most beautiful things you’ll see in Aves,” she said.

Sarah couldn’t argue, and even Jareth looked floored. Arches and columns rose up to a vaulted ceiling: every structure, every element of the vast room painted, carved, gilded, so that the multitude of artistic and architectural flourishes created one harmonious whole. The tall windows were uncovered, allowing sunlight to stream in through the eastern windows. Rows of seats upholstered in velvet rose in tiers along either long wall; the performances, Sarah saw, would take place in the center of the room. And at the far end of the chamber were arrayed larger, more magnificent chairs beneath an embroidered canopy, the whole affair shaded by a tremendous eagle with outspread wings, the wood gilded, so that the bird appeared to be carved out of solid gold. Sarah remembered her vision of Queen Eucissa lying in state, her funeral bier shadowed by another eagle, and she repressed a shudder.

“This is where the performances take place,” said Lenia, her voice hushed, as though they stood in a holy space, and indeed, the splendor of this one room rivaled the most magnificent churches Sarah had ever toured. “Down at that end, that’s where the royal family sits.”

Jareth hummed a few notes, cocking his head, to test the acoustics. Lenia smiled.

“Yes, the sound quality is wonderful in here.” They paced the great room at their leisure, Sarah not wanting to miss a single detail. Lenia said, “After the welcoming feast, there’s going to be a concert. Come through here, and I’ll show you the Royal Instrument Collection.”

She led them through another one of those cunningly concealed doors, through a brief passage, and down a twisting flight of steps. At the base of the steps, she produced a large key and used it to unlock another door. “Some of these instruments are antiques that go back generations.”

This room stretched as large as the one above it, but far more utilitarian in appearance. Instruments with keyboards occupied one end of the room: clavichord, harpsichord, virginals, and an elegant spinet, the instruments all housed in carved and painted wooden cabinets. Beyond the keyboard instruments were harps of every size, from tiny hand-held things to one that towered up over six feet. Other stringed instruments were next, displayed in cabinets and cases: lutes and other guitar-like creations, clearly meant to be held and strummed, while others were more violin-like in their construction, the bows lying beside them. Next came the pipes and flutes of the woodwind family, and beyond that, a staggering array of horns. And finally, the percussion instruments, including a massive standing drum, as tall as Sarah.

She ventured a quick glance at Jareth, and could almost have laughed. The look on his face—entranced, covetous, immersed in an inner world of desire—must have been her exact expression when she was selecting her new clothes, or admiring the art and architecture of the palace.

For a moment, their eyes met. Sarah reached out to take his hand. She promised herself they wouldn’t leave Aves without her finding some splendid new instrument for Jareth.

They left the music collection at the far end of the room, Jareth throwing one last wistful glance over his shoulder, and Lenia led them down another flight of spiral steps to a workshop where various instruments were under repair. The whole place smelled marvelous, intoxicating with the scents of wood and paint and resin. The activity of the shop was overseen by a master craftswoman, an artisan of advanced years, who directed a staff of three dozen. The older ones worked on strings and valves and reeds, adjusting the elements of the instruments that produced sound, while the younger women fixed the casings and stands. The youngest girls were apprentices, identifiable by their plain, beige linen smocks, every strand of hair tucked up beneath matching linen caps.

Here, the guests were not allowed to wander, and Lenia kept her voice very quiet, when she said, “The women who work here need to have extraordinary musical gifts, as well as the manual skill for crafting the instruments. It’s so important for them to be able to judge the quality of tone and understand how it needs to be adjusted. They spend years studying different kinds of wood and metal and string.”

Sarah realized she had not seen any fireplaces in this part of the palace. “How do they keep it so warm in here?”

“There’s a furnace in the basement,” Lenia told her. “The heat rises through vents in the floor. It uses an incredible amount of wood, but the cold would ruin the instruments, and we can’t risk open fires or braziers.”

They left the workroom and went down another level. “This is where they rehearse,” said Lenia, her voice still low. She unlocked a door at the bottom of the stairs and led her guests out onto a balcony. Sarah saw that the balcony wrapped around another of those vast chambers that were such a feature of architecture in the royal palace. Down on the floor below sat a dozen musicians on simple wooden chairs arrayed in a semicircle. The women were murmuring among themselves. Four of them held woodwind instruments of some type; six held stringed instruments—lutes of varying sizes and designs; one held a drum; and the last woman sat at a clavichord, over to one side. All the women wore identical blue linen dresses, the sleeves close-fitting, their hair—much like that of the apprentice girls upstairs—tucked back beneath matching linen caps. Sarah wondered if they would have more elaborate costumes for the actual performance.

A middle-aged woman appeared to be leading this small group. Sarah noted that her dark blue dress and cap bore embroidered trim: a mark of rank? She gave some command to the musicians, who ceased their conversations. All twelve readied their instruments. Sarah heard the leader counting: “Three, two, one, _and_ —”

Without even a moment’s hesitation, the musicians began to play: first the clavichord, then the lutenists came in one at a time, each adding a layer of dimension to the lovely sound. The variation for the strings ended, and then the woodwinds entered, continuing the central motif but with a notable change of key. The rhythm became more pronounced in this section, accented by soft percussion from the drummer, and then the lutes came back in as the piece built towards its dazzling, full-bodied crescendo. In the final moments, the woodwinds began to play a harmony, which added a sense of melancholy to the sweet, spirited melody. The instruments began to exit: first the drum, then the woodwinds, then the lutes, until finally a coda played by the clavichord brought the piece to its conclusion.

Sarah realized, to her amazement, that the musicians had no sheet music. Had they all memorized their respective parts? The woman who led the ensemble had given the players minimal guidance, nodding along with the music and making only small hand gestures. Sarah pantomimed silent applause, and Lenia grinned at her reaction. Jareth’s mask of studied boredom had fallen away while he was listening, his expression nothing short of rapturous.

Down on the floor, the leader of the ensemble was talking to her musicians, giving them instructions, and after a break of a few moments, they began to play the same piece again. Lenia held a finger to her lips, then gestured for her guests to follow her.

“That was wonderful!” Sarah enthused once they were outside the rehearsal chamber.

“Yes, they’ll be one of the ensembles who’ll perform at the feast tomorrow night and of course at the coronation. There’s other musicians who accompany the dancers. Aves is famous for its musicians. Queen Eucissa was a gifted harpist, and Princess Petronia plays wonderfully on the virginals.”

Sarah asked, “Is there a reason for the dresses and caps the women were wearing?”

“Oh, yes,” Lenia told her. “Apprentices are always in light colors. The luthiers wear brown. Musicians wear blue. Those women we saw playing are adepts, so they wear mid-blue. Women who’ve achieved the rank of Grand Mistress in a craft wear the darkest colors. You’ll hear some of the novice musicians during the coronation festivals—it’s a good way for them to gain experience performing. And of course, they all wear those caps to keep their hair out of their work.”

“I see,” Sarah nodded.

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice Lenia had returned them to the Falcon Suite until they were ascending the curved staircase.

“We can tour the library after you’ve finished luncheon,” Lenia said.

Sarah hadn’t realized how much time they’d spent in the conservatory. After such a large breakfast, she wouldn’t have thought she’d have any kind of appetite. But the smell of food made her stomach rumble, and when she and Jareth were served, she began eating as if she’d been fasting for days. The luncheon followed the same protocol as breakfast, with comely boys bringing out one dish after another. Jareth and Sarah ate until they were too full for another mouthful. They checked on Lizzie, who was napping after a busy morning of play, and the other goblins. By the time the royal pair had freshened themselves, Lenia had arrived to escort them to the palace library.

Their route through the palace took them across more of those high bridges, and Sarah could see for the first time a broad, elegant span, enclosed by tall balustrades and shaded with a roof, that led directly from the south gate of the city’s outer wall to the southern wall of the palace itself. It was here, she realized, that she and Jareth should have made their entry. No wonder everyone they’d encountered the previous day had been so flummoxed.

Following her line of gaze, Lenia said, “That’s the South Gate Overpass.”

Sarah kept her face in a neutral mask that she hoped concealed her true reaction. Guests of high rank could, it seemed, enter the palace without having to go down to the literal level of the ordinary people in Phoebetria. That bridge would take them right over the Outer Boulevard, even the pleasant bustle of the Market Circle and the stately elegance of the Queen’s Yards. She flinched inside to realize that the monarchs of the other kingdoms no doubt expected not to have to deal with anyone except their royal peers. They wouldn’t have to see the ugliness of the city’s outer precincts, or think about it, or even learn that it was there.

_If I hadn’t been a little off with that travel spell_ , Sarah realized, _I wouldn’t know about it, either_. She thought of the way city guards and palace officials had behaved toward her and Jareth the previous day, the wary and slightly pained expressions. Had they expected criticism or rebuke? Sarah, fearful of committing some social blunder, would never have been so presumptuous, and Jareth wouldn’t have cared. Still, she couldn’t help be more aware now of how Lenia affected a bland, studied cheerfulness, the way her smile never wavered and her eyes stayed fixed on the sky above, as if wondering about the next day’s weather.

The library proved to be every bit as magnificent as everything else in the palace. Sarah had expected nothing less than a glorious temple of learning and culture, and in that she was not disappointed. Unlike the dusty, shadowy maze of Jareth’s library, this place all but glowed with light. Not a single room, but a suite hosting different collections, the Royal Library of Phoebetria proclaimed from every shelf, every corner, every carving, that here, the wisdom of greatest minds in the endless history of Aves could be found.

A pair of women guarded the imposing outer doors, and inside, a dozen or so women worked in an elegant but functional receiving room. Sarah noted again those plain linen dresses and matching caps. Yellow seemed to be the color of the librarians, with the Grand Mistress in a deep golden topaz, edged with embroidery. The other women’s gowns were saffron colored and unadorned.

Lenia spoke with the Grand Mistress, who came forward and greeted the goblin monarchs with a curtsey, telling them they were free to explore the library as they wished, only to please refrain from touching anything in the Antiquities Collection.

Marble staircases led from the reception area on either side, sweeping up, and when Sarah reached the top landing, and first beheld the vast main chamber of the library, she felt light-headed with astonishment and pleasure. For a moment she thought she would have surrendered all the splendid gowns, all the jewels, all the finery in the Seven Kingdoms, in exchange for this room. It stretched down what appeared to be the length of two or three football fields, rows of high wooden shelves on either side. The walls rose up like those in the conservatory and the Summer Hall, to an arched ceiling overhead. Tall windows on either side allowed plenty of daylight for reading. And down at the far end of the room, in the western wall, was a round window of colored glass. On a mosaic background of red, purple, green, and blue, was a golden eagle, outspread wings stretched from one edge of the circle to the other, its proud head turned to the left. In its talons, it clutched a scroll of paper.

As Jareth and Sarah stood motionless, staggered by the opulence, the sun’s position shifted, setting the round window ablaze and casting a kaleidoscope of jeweled color the entire length of the room.

“The Eagle Window,” said Lenia. “It’s best viewed in the afternoon.”

“Wow.” That one syllable slipped out of Sarah’s mouth, as inadequate as anything she’d ever uttered.

Lenia smiled, genuine this time. “At your leisure,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs for a while.” In a swirl of perfumed skirts, she was gone.

Sarah’s feet moved of their own volition, and she drifted down the central aisle of the room, head turning from right to left, not sure where to start. Even the very shelves were things of wonder and extraordinary beauty, the outer surface of each bookcase carved with garlands of flowers and branches and vines, topped with a carved and painted image of a bird. As Sarah strolled from bookcase to bookcase, she realized no two birds were alike; each carving featured a different species. The amount of time that must have gone into the construction and decoration of this room staggered her.

She didn’t know where to look first, and she wished she’d thought to ask Lenia if the books were organized in any particular way. From time to time, she glanced down a side aisle and spotted a yellow-clad librarian, a couple of them with apprentices in tow. Sarah kept walking until she reached the far end of the aisle and stood dwarfed by the mind-boggling immensity of the Eagle Window. The air around her seemed alive with shimmering waves of color, so that Sarah felt as though she were standing underwater in the most astonishing ocean that could be imagined.

She had reached the last set of shelves and turned to her right, wandering down the length of the bookcase, tracing her fingertips along the spines of the leather-bound volumes. At intervals along the shelving, flat wooden reading desks had been constructed, upon which books could be laid flat. The shelves were attached to the bookcases with ingenious hinges and could be folded up when not in use.

Sarah chose one tome at random, the rich brown leather of the binding stamped with gold, a treatise on natural philosophy. She set the book on the nearest desk and turned the pages, admiring the illustrated constellations and scanning the lines of text. From the neatness and uniformity of the typeface, Sarah knew the book had been printed on a mechanical printing press, rather than hand-copied. Still, she handled the book with reverent care, returning it to its place on the shelf after she’d skimmed a couple of chapters. This entire bookcase appeared devoted to works of philosophy. She stepped back, craning her neck a bit, estimating that the case rose up to twelve feet high. Carved wooden staircases on casters could be rolled along the length of each bookcase to access the highest shelves.

She reached the end of the row and saw an archway in the wall that led to another marble staircase; the library was like the rest of the palace, each marvel leading into some new enchantment. Sarah wanted to do nothing but explore, look, and touch. She took those stairs up and discovered they led to an enclosed walkway. Up another flight of steps, she found herself in a map room, dominated by a large table. The table was empty at the moment, though Sarah guessed maps could be unrolled and examined here. The walls were honeycombed with sets of small, deep wooden boxes, each of which held a rolled map. One wall had been left bare, and on this wall had been mounted a map showing the entirety of Aves. Sarah had seen a smaller version of it in one of Jareth’s books.

Aves consisted of one massive landmass and its small satellite continent, Telluraves. Phoebetria appeared to be the only major city, located on the continent’s south coast. North of the city were farming settlements divided into regions. Beyond the farmlands lay what appeared to be a vast forest, dotted in the east by a series of lakes that gave way to a region of peat bogs. To the west, the forest ended in something called the Great Salt Plain. And to the far north, at the edge of the continent ran a ribbon of water: the Great River. Sarah recalled that Aranea had had a Great River, bordering that kingdom’s barren wastelands. She would have to ask Jareth about that. Her heart ached: it had been in Aranea’s Great River that poor, dear Hoggle had drowned.

Pushing aside grief and self-recriminations, Sarah turned her gaze to Telluraves, which lay to the southeast of the main continent. A dark thread on the map indicated the land bridge that connected the two. Telluraves appeared to be all one jurisdiction, not subdivided into regions. The bottom of the map showed only ocean. Sarah wondered what would happen if someone kept sailing south: did anything lay beyond that sea? The thought caused her an unexpected shudder.

She hastened from the map room through another door, went down a short hallway, and found herself in a large, rather businesslike chamber. Here adolescent girls in pale yellow gowns and caps worked at desks and tables, organizing piles of scrolls and making notations on some of them using quill pens.

A woman in canary yellow approached Sarah, smiling. She bobbed a curtsey. “May I be of assistance, Your Grace?”

“I’m touring the library,” Sarah responded. “May I ask what this room is for?”

“It’s the Royal Archive,” the woman explained. “We catalogue the queen’s correspondence and business records here. Every month, her personal secretaries bring us paperwork, and we decide the best way to archive it. For example, the coronation. We’ll eventually store the records of every aspect of the celebrations—who was invited, who attended, where they were quartered. We’ll keep the lists of entertainers, how much they were paid; the foods that were served at each banquet; the fabrics ordered for the queen’s robes—anything you can imagine. It’s an enormous, complex undertaking, and by keeping detailed notes, we can verify, for example, how many horses were given as a gift from Eutheria. If a performer or merchant claims she wasn’t paid, we can verify that and notify the queen’s treasurer.”

Sarah nodded, thinking of how Jareth would have laughed at this vast hive of bureaucracy. But it kept these women’s days occupied in work they considered useful, so Sarah didn’t see how that was such a bad thing. She gazed about the room, the shelves lining the walls, filled with leather-bound folios. She smiled to think that in time, her own visit would be recorded in some scribe’s neat notation: the clothes she’d ordered, the food she and Jareth had eaten, the gifts they’d given the new queen.

“Would you like to see the Antiquities Collection?” the woman inquired.

“I’d love that,” Sarah told her.

The woman led Sarah across the archive, up yet another of those curving staircases, and into a large room whose delightful, musty odor proclaimed the age of its contents. A grandmotherly woman in goldenrod presided over this region of the library, her bearing and expression communicating a no-nonsense authority. Her gray hair was tucked up beneath a cap embroidered with tiny blue birds. Another Grand Mistress.

She led Sarah about the room, showing off the artifacts of the ancient history of Aves. There were scrolls under glass, their archaic script proclaiming the coronation of some long-ago queen. An old map bore intriguing evidence that Telluraves had once been a peninsula of the main continent. There were small, crudely-hewn flutes that must once have been played by the very earliest inhabitants of the kingdom. Glass-fronted bookcases held volumes, the leather bindings blackened and cracked, the parchment yellowed almost brown from time. And in one corner stood a small, primitive-looking thing that Sarah recognized right away as a printing press. On a wall nearby hung an embroidered piece of fabric, framed and covered with glass, no less beautiful because of its faded, threadbare condition. The panel depicted a multitude of bird species on a robin’s egg blue background.

“Isn’t that handsome?” the woman asked, beaming with as much pride as if she’d created the thing herself. “The late Queen Eucissa’s great-grandmother Agelastis embroidered that when she was sixteen years old.”

“It is lovely,” agreed Sarah. She’d done a lot of work with fibers during her high school art classes, and she admired the weave of the cloth, the delicate and precise needlework.

“Aves was the first of the Seven Kingdoms to have a printing press,” the woman went on. “It’s why we have the most extensive library. If you like, you can ask to tour the Royal Scriptorium, although of course, it’s not a true scriptorium any more. That’s where the queen’s newest printing presses are housed.”

“Thank you,” Sarah responded.

“And the Royal Museum is a marvel, too,” the woman said. Her expression had crossed a line, Sarah thought, between enthusiasm and fanaticism. Maybe working here alone, surrounded by such old things, had left the curator a bit peculiar. “You shouldn’t miss it.”

“I’ll be sure not to.” Sarah nodded to the woman, and after a cursory examination of another bookcase, made a graceful departure. She slipped through the Royal Archive and back into the map room, then practically ran down the stairs to the main library, dropping into the first chair she found.

All her young life, Sarah had been academically gifted. After her escapades in the Labyrinth at fifteen, that intelligence had hardened into diamond-like ambition, and in the ensuing six years Sarah had reeled off A grades and stellar exam scores by the dozen. She remembered re-taking the SAT because her score on the math portion had been “only” a 770. But rarely had she valued learning for its own sake. Oh, she’d paid the notion lip service when it counted: interviews, her college application essay. But academic success for Sarah was a means to an end, a way of getting one up on Jareth, even though he’d been unaware of them, and anyway, he would have been indifferent to the fruits of human toil.

But the vast accumulated trove of learning and culture that had been amassed by the royal families of Aves struck Sarah as somehow worse, because this knowledge, this wisdom, was not being used to enrich the lives of the general populace. This library was in no sense a public institution. Perhaps once in a while ordinary people would be permitted to come in here and gaze about, to admire the countless volumes on their beautifully adorned shelves. But Sarah doubted if commoners would be allowed even to touch a single one of those books. And if that wisdom was kept sequestered, what use was it? The books were little more than ornaments, leather-bound baubles with which the queen could enlarge her grandeur, no different from the stained glass windows, the rugs on the floors, the painted and gilded plaster curlicues that adorned the walls and ceilings.

Suddenly Sarah wanted Jareth: his warm presence, his earthy laugh, his sardonic humor. She needed his _realness_. Springing up to her feet, she swept across the width of the library, finding on the opposite side another staircase leading up. Sarah followed the stairs to a short hallway, which led to a large room full of bound leather folios, hundreds of them, arranged in meticulous rows of floor-to-ceiling shelves. Like the Royal Archive, this room had an air of businesslike purpose. Jareth sat in a comfortable chair, a folio in his lap, turning pages with rapt concentration. On a low table beside him sat a stack of maybe a dozen more volumes.

Sarah noticed a glass-topped case in the center of the floor, which she discovered contained a peculiar stringed instrument. Its shape reminded her of a banjo, only much smaller, and a bow lay beside it, so perhaps it would be played like a violin. The instrument seemed ancient, but it still bore the outline of a bird etched into the wooden casing. The women of Aves had been crafting instruments for eons.

Sarah went around the back of Jareth’s chair so she could see what he was reading. The folio contained parchment pages full of hand-lettered symbols whose meaning baffled Sarah for a moment. Then she understood.

“Music?” she asked

“Hmm,” Jareth nodded. He pointed to one column of squiggles and began humming.

“It’s the piece they were playing this morning!”

“It didn’t take me an hour to find it… I first had to work out their cataloging system.”

Sarah caressed his shoulder. “You’re irresistibly clever.”

“Damn straight,” Jareth smiled, using an expression he’d picked up from her.

“But the musicians didn’t need the sheet music.”

“They’ve played it enough times to have it memorized,” Jareth said. He traced the back of Sarah’s hand with his fingertips. “Is my lady queen thoroughly sated with books?”

Sarah circled around and sat in another chair, propping her feet on the edge of the table. To hell with propriety. “I didn’t actually look at many of them,” she admitted. “I found a map room and the Queen’s Archives and the Antiquities Collection.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Not that you’d notice.” Sarah picked up the folio on top of the stack and opened it, but she couldn’t make heads or tails out of the ciphers. Even in her own world, music had been the subject that had held the least interest for her. She always enjoyed listening to it, but she wasn’t much of a singer, and she’d never played an instrument. Setting down the folio, she said, “Tell me about the Great River.”

“What would you like to know about it?”

“Where does it start?” she asked. “Where does it go?”

Jareth closed his folio and said, “The Great River runs through all seven kingdoms.”

“So could you travel from one kingdom to another by boat?”

“Not remotely.” Jareth’s mouth curled up into its habitual smile. “At the border of each kingdom, the river drops through the Void in a waterfall of perpetual blackness.” His right hand made a graceful gesture: falling, falling, falling. “It enters the next kingdom in a cataract of impenetrable fog. Nobody’s ever survived traveling from one kingdom to the next, at least not that’s been known.”

“So, where’s our Great River? The one in the Underground?”

“It’s beyond the Living Sands,” Jareth told her.

Sarah had only seen the Living Sands once—she and Jareth had been touring the Underground, following their wedding. She had been pregnant with Lizzie at the time. Jareth had shown her the very edge of the Sands, a desert which only the Goblin King could cross and survive.

“What about the ocean?” she asked. “The map of Aves was weird—it showed the ocean to the south, but then nothing.”

Jareth shook his head. “These worlds aren’t like the world of the humans,” he said. Sarah appreciated that he hadn’t said _your world_ ; God only knew who might be eavesdropping on them. “The realm of humanity is a sphere. The Seven Kingdoms are flat. Any ocean that bounds a kingdom is like the Great River—it ends in a massive waterfall that drops into the Void.”

“The point of no return,” Sarah murmured. “I’ve read that humans once believed their own world was like that.”

“It may have seemed that way,” Jareth said. “The human imagination is limited.”

“Present company excepted,” Sarah responded. She knew her own imagination was part of what had drawn Jareth to her.

“Indeed,” he grinned.

“The Seven Kingdoms seem to have once been more closely… linked, then,” Sarah offered.

“To each other, and to the world of humans,” Jareth said. “The Great River was, in very early times, a way to travel from one to the next.”

“So, what happened?”

“No one can say for certain,” Jareth said, “but the realms are drifting apart from each other. Travel among them is now only possible through magic. And there are very few who can enter the world of humans—their minds are too closed to magic.”

“Fancy that.” Sarah could imagine what had happened—too much superstitious prejudice against anyone with magical ability, combined perhaps with a growing reliance on technology. Indeed, taming fire must itself have seemed to early humans like a form of magic. She thought of the painfully short human lifespan and wondered if her species might have enjoyed longer lives if they hadn’t rejected magic.

_Maybe that’s not such a bad thing_ , she reasoned. _Someone like Hitler, living thousands of years?_ She grimaced.

Outside the music room’s windows, the sky had deepened to a purple-tinged blue, and Sarah realized the sun had set. As if on cue, she heard a quick tapping footstep on the marble floor, and Lenia swirled into the room on a cloud of fragrance. Her eyes held a hectic light, and her skin was flushed pink. Sarah wondered where she’d been for the past few hours.

“Good evening,” she said, her mouth tilting up into its funny diagonal smile. “Have you enjoyed the library?”

“It’s fascinating,” Sarah told her. That seemed sincere enough. “There’s so much to see.”

“Would you like to take any of the books back to your rooms?” Lenia inquired.

“I’ve barely had time to begin looking through the collection,” Sarah said. “Perhaps I could come back tomorrow.”

“Your new things will be ready for fitting by tomorrow,” said Lenia, her tone regretful. “Perhaps I could have a few volumes chosen for you?”

“I’d love to read more about the history of architecture in Aves,” Sarah told her.

“Of course. I’ll have the librarians select something interesting, and the books will be brought to your rooms.”

On their way back to the Falcon Suite, Sarah said, “The woman in the Antiquities Collection recommended the Royal Scriptorium and the Royal Museum.”

“Perhaps after the welcoming feast,” Lenia said. “You might want to allow two days for the museum—it’s fairly extensive. The scriptorium will only take an hour or two. It’s fascinating work, but there’s not really a lot to see.” She asked Jareth, “And you, my lord?”

He grinned, but said nothing. Sarah answered, “Just lock him in the conservatory and throw away the key.”

Lenia laughed and said, “I can arrange time for you to play any instrument you want, so long as it doesn’t interfere with a rehearsal or performance.”

“Maybe I can occupy myself that way tomorrow while my lady queen is fitted for her splendid new wardrobe, since it seems she’ll need all day.”

“Of course—I’ll look into it at once. Any instrument in particular?”

“Any of the harps,” Jareth said.

“I’ll have one put in a private rehearsal room.”

They’d reached the Falcon Suite, and Sarah thought to ask Lenia, “What are these other rooms for? The ones across the hall from us?” She pointed to the double doors.

“Oh, those are summer rooms,” Lenia said. “They’re identical to the ones you’re staying in. If the coronation were in summer, that’s where you’d be quartered. Those rooms are cooler because they face north. You wouldn’t want to be in them now.”

“I’d imagine not.” Sarah felt a vague sense of discomfiture at such an extravagant outlay of resources for the benefit of so few people. Again, the plight of the people in the Outer Boulevard came to mind. But those thoughts evaporated like mist at dawn when she stepped into her own suite and found the fire blazing, palace serving-boys shuttering windows and bringing down the tapestries, while Elfswhit and Wulfrun played with Lizzie. Sarah swept up her daughter, feeling as though she’d been separated from her baby for years instead of hours. _This is what matters_ , she thought, _not books or dresses or splendid architecture_.

Still, when they went to dinner, Sarah didn’t hesitate to eat everything that was offered to her, sampling with relish from the multitude of dishes the serving-boys brought out. And when she and Jareth and Lizzie returned to their rooms after dinner, twenty books on architecture waited for Sarah, arrayed in a pretty lacquered cabinet, and a note from Lenia said she’d arranged for Jareth to have a few hours with a half-dozen harps in a private rehearsal room.

(iv)

That night, Sarah dreamed she was in a full-rigged clipper, sailing into the mists of an endless ocean. Looking around the deck, she realized everyone she’d ever known was on the vessel: family, teachers, childhood and teenage friends, college professors. There were Hoggle and Ludo and Sir Didymus. Her mother was there, her father, and Irene, holding Toby in her arms. Jareth held Lizzie, his long hair blowing in the sea breeze. There stood Lenia, laughing, holding up a crimson gown that Sarah could see was in tatters. But nobody controlled this ship of fools: it was heading for a thundering waterfall, about to tumble into the abyss of nothingness, and they were all powerless to stop it. Faster, faster, the ship was swept to the edge, toppled and fell, and kept falling, until Sarah jolted awake in the cold and the darkness, trembling, stricken with the sense that some inexplicable horror lay just outside the edges of her mind, where she could not perceive it.

**To be continued…**


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-9-17.

_Four_

A hushed but nevertheless excited murmur rose above the assembled ranks of the Seven Kingdoms’ nobility. The gathering filled an anteroom above the Winter Hall, where the welcoming feast would be held. The great hall was already packed with guests and dignitaries, if the babble of voices was any measure. Sarah stood with Jareth, Lizzie in her arms, the little girl gazing about with wide-eyed astonishment and curiosity. Sarah could feel the interest directed at her and the baby, to say nothing of Jareth himself, who many of the nobles had never seen.

The goblin monarchs stood in a cluster, Lenia hovering nearby. Around the room, the other royal families waited with their minders. Sarah didn’t stare, but she did glance, catching details from the corners of her eyes.

At least she didn’t have to worry about dressing inappropriately. Sarah had spent most of the day having fittings for her new clothes. Her burgundy damask gown had come back from Petronia’s seamstresses with more than just the sleeves altered, and as soon as she’d tried it on, Sarah had realized the garment had been pulled apart and reassembled by expert hands. The gown fit better, the seams were neater, and the needle-women had taken the liberty of embellishing the black velvet trim with gold lace. The result was a gown that fit to her body without a flaw: no bagging in the fabric, no stray threads, nothing awkward or amateur, just a vision of sleekness and symmetry. The deep crimson damask was set off by jewelry of blood-red rubies. Jareth’s jacket had been similarly altered. His hose, boots, and gloves were black, and a new black cloak flowed over his shoulders, a marvelous contrast with his pale hair. Nothing in his posture betrayed anxiety, but Sarah knew him well enough to detect his slight air of apprehension.

From the hall below came the sound of horns, a marvelous fanfare. A tall woman who served as some kind of marshal led one of the royal families from the anteroom and out to the balcony. Over the music, Sarah heard the sudden increase in the jabber of the guests’ voices and what sounded to her like the rustle of people taking to their feet.

The fanfare of horns ended in a flourish, and the cacophony of conversation came to an abrupt halt. In that moment of hushed expectation came the booming voice of the marshal.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she called out, “I have the honor of presenting to Her Majesty, Princess Petronia, the royal family of Varan. Please welcome King Colobrid, Queen Galvodea, and the royal princes and princesses.”

There followed a great swell of cheering and applause, accompanied by more trumpeting. In her mind’s eye, Sarah could envision the royal guests making their dignified descent to the floor of the great hall. The noise continued for some while, and when the music stopped, the applause and voices began to quiet down. Another cluster of guests left the anteroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the marshal announced, “I have the honor of presenting to Her Majesty, Princess Petronia, the royal family of Eutheria. Please welcome Queen Fossa, King Loris, and the royal princesses.”

The music and cheering started up again. Sarah felt a clenching in her stomach, and she willed herself to breathe as another family left the room.

“We’re next,” said Lenia, leading Jareth and Sarah to the doorway. From there, Sarah could see clear across the upper level of the great hall to where the musicians stood, their brass instruments gleaming in the candlelight. The marvelous scents of food caused Sarah’s mouth to water, and above the smell of the food wafted the scent of flowers, incongruous in winter’s chill.

The marshal announced the next family, from the kingdom of Sabal: King Ilex, Queen Nandina, and their children. The crowds of people went wild all over again. Sarah wondered how much they’d been drinking. Not that they needed liquor: their very inclusion at this event conferred its own intoxicating status.

Lenia led Jareth and Sarah from the anteroom, out onto the balcony, and to the head of the grand, sweeping staircase. Sarah observed that the Winter Hall was almost identical to the Summer Hall, except that instead of being painted to resemble a summer garden by daylight, this hall was decorated to resemble a winter forest by moonlight. She watched as the royal family of Sabal bowed and curtsied to Princess Petronia and Prince Tylas, who sat on a dais at one end of the hall beneath a canopy of embroidered fabric: cloth of gold and robin’s egg blue silk.

The music stopped, and another hushed silence fell over the hall. The marshal announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor of presenting to Her Majesty, Princess Petronia, the royal family of the Underground. Please welcome King Jareth, Queen Sarah, and the royal princess.”

Sarah drew on all her years of amateur theatrics, academic pomp, and her recent goblin confidence in descending that staircase, one arm through Jareth’s, the other cradling Lizzie to her body. At this proximity, the music of the trumpets was almost deafening, and it was a relief when they reached the lower steps. The great hall was packed with almost twice as many people as it seemed capable of holding, everyone cheering, those at the back tables craning their necks to get a look at the reclusive King of the Goblins and his new queen. As serene as a swan, Lenia led Jareth and Sarah first to the dais, where they bowed and curtseyed to Petronia and Tylas, then along the length of the floor to their table.

When the hubbub had quieted, the last family was announced. “Queen Inula, King Rumex, and the royal princes and princess,” the royal family of Vitis.

Sarah watched this quintet descend the stairs with no particular grace: a middle-aged couple and a younger couple, the young man carrying a boy of about eighteen months in his arms. After the parade of gorgeously attired royalty, the apparel of this family came as a shock. Their clothes were neat, well-fitting, and handsome, but otherwise plain and unadorned. There was no shimmer of silk, no flash of jewels, no enchanting rustle of damask or taffeta, no plush luxury of velvet or fur. They looked like Quakers at the court of Louis XV. A kind of bitchy thrill went through the vast hall, and Sarah’s keen ears picked up quick whispered snatches of gossip under the cheers and the fanfare of trumpets.

“—Petronia’s second cousin—can you believe—?”

“—wool, at a state dinner—”

“—my manservant is more presentable—”

“—slap in the face—”

“—you’d think they’re doing this on purpose—”

“—beautiful son—such a shame—”

“—what a proper tailor could do for him—”

“—dark blue and brown—like peasants—”

“—hope they manage better for the coronation—”

The royal family of Vitis had reached the bottom of the staircase. They were presented to Petronia and Tylas, then escorted to their table. The horns blasted a final fanfare, and the hubbub of voices dropped.

Petronia’s voice rang out, echoing off the walls. “Welcome, good friends. We are truly honored by your presence. This is the largest and most festive gathering Aves has seen in centuries. Scant weeks ago, we grieved the passing of our beloved mother and queen, Eucissa. Tonight we begin the celebration of a new order.”

Everyone cheered and applauded. Sarah glanced at Jareth: behind his studied poker face, his eyes were alight with humor at Petronia’s self-aggrandizement. _Nothing like blowing your own horn_ , Sarah thought.

Tylas held up a gorgeous, ornate goblet that looked like solid gold, studded with precious stones. His mesmerizing voice rippled out. “Let us drink to the health of Princess Petronia—soon to be Queen Petronia.”

Goblets of wine had been placed on every table. The vast assemblage raised their cups and toasted the queen-to-be.

Petronia went on, “As we have cause to be joyful, so too do we have cause to mourn.” The room went quiet; something in Petronia’s face suggested she wasn’t talking about her mother. “The past year has seen the demise of the once-mighty kingdom of Aranea. Our dear brother Theridion and our sister-queen Portia have been lost. All their subjects are lost, and the royal city of Aranea is crushed, buried beneath a mountain of ice.”

A flurry of shocked murmurs and exclamations of genuine dismay swept through the crowd. Sarah could tell this revelation was news to a lot of people. No doubt some of them had heard rumors, but to have the sovereign of Aves announce the truth at such a public event confirmed the reality beyond doubt. Sarah’s glance darted like a quick hummingbird to the faces of the other monarchs, trying to read their expressions. She wondered who had already known, who had guessed.

“So, let us observe a reverent moment for our departed kin and their lost kingdom.”

Now a stone-dead silence and stillness descended over the hall. Scores of eyes were cast downward. The minute seemed to stretch into eternity: not a cough, not a rustle, not a hint of movement. When Petronia broke her silence, she scarcely needed to raise her voice above a whisper.

“To Aranea.” She raised her cup.

“Aranea,” everyone murmured, following suit. The wine tasted bitter as vinegar on Sarah’s tongue. She tried not to remember the feeling—the precise tactile sensation—of driving Jareth’s sword into Portia’s body, cutting through muscle and bone until Portia’s foul heart had shaken the blade. Beneath Sarah’s bodice, the Dragon’s Heart felt warm against her skin.

She kept her eyes lowered, praying that nobody in Aves had the power to read minds.

Petronia took her seat behind the high table, Tylas beside her on the right. To Petronia’s left sat Lady Gannet—mother-in-law to the princess—resplendent in a gown of deep mauve. Sarah could feel Lady Gannet’s piercing blue gaze from halfway across the hall.

Lenia gestured for Jareth and Sarah to sit. Once the monarchs were seated, the rest of the guests took their chairs. Conversation rose up again, first awkward murmurs, but then the lively jabber of celebration. Chair legs scraped on the stone floors as servants helped push guests in closer to the tables. A stream of serving boys in robin’s egg blue tunics began to circulate, bearing platters and serving bowls of food.

Sarah took a better look at her surroundings. The tables of the other guests were arrayed on raised platforms around three sides of the Winter Hall, so that there was nobody present whose view was so completely obstructed that they could not see Petronia. The other five royal families enjoyed the privilege of tables directly on the floor: two along the long edges and one at the far end of the room, the furthest distance from the princess. It didn’t escape Sarah’s notice—nor anyone else’s, she suspected—that the monarchs from the Kingdom of Vitis were the ones banished to this prandial Siberia.

Sarah and Jareth’s table, like those of the other monarchs, had been draped in gorgeous ivory damask, the fabric embroidered in robin’s egg blue. Large candles in golden holders provided light, and in jewel-studded gold bowls floated massed profusions of creamy white and pink flowers.

“I thought I smelled roses,” Sarah told Lenia. “These are beautiful.”

“The royal palace has a greenhouse,” Lenia responded. “We grow flowers all year round. I can take you on a tour, if you’d like.”

The flowers weren’t limited to the tables, but had been arranged into decorative ropes and swags with boughs of evergreen, the scent of the roses mingling with the heady Christmas-tree scent of pine. The walls of the Winter Hall had been decorated with images of snow-covered conifers, so astonishing in their verisimilitude that the pine scent seemed to emanate from the paintings. The walls above the trees were indigo blue, with remarkable variations in shading, suggesting the night sky. This effect continued up into the ceiling, where constellations of stars had been painted. Sarah marveled over the intricacy of the work, the sheer realism of the images. She felt as though she were sitting in the midst of a vast primeval forest, beneath a starry sky in the depth of winter—if roses grew in midwinter woodlands and the wilderness contained every comfort and luxury that could be imagined.

For a while, her attention turned to the food. For this illustrious occasion, the best possible plate and utensils had been provided, and every dish was served on gold. The utensils were etched and enameled, some set with gemstones and crystals. The palace cooks had outdone themselves, and every course was presented with elegance and flair, as marvelous to look upon as it was delicious to eat. Serving boys bearing decanters of wine circulated, assuring nobody’s goblet would ever be empty. Sarah divided her attention between feeding herself and feeding Lizzie, who bubbled and clapped her hands to indicate the things she liked best.

The baby in her lap provided the perfect screen behind which Sarah could observe the other royal guests. To her left, at the far end of the hall, Petronia was served the most extravagant dishes, accepting some of what she was offered, rejecting others, eating with a single-minded absorption and pleasure. Between courses her dark blue eyes would make a rapid circuit of the room, or she would lean over and whisper something to Lady Gannet. She almost never spoke to Prince Tylas, who sat beside his wife, decked from head to foot in fur-trimmed, jewel-encrusted velvet, every inch the immanent king, but little more than ornamental.

At the opposite end of the room, the family from Vitis could not have provided a greater contrast. Sarah observed their frequent smiles and laughter, the easy posture of the four adults, the way all of them doted on the little boy, passing the tyke back and forth from lap to lap. The boy looked like his father: a long, well-proportioned body and abundant curly hair. The boy’s parents had moved their chairs so they could sit closer together, and Sarah could feel the emotional warmth between them even down the length of the great hall. The adults ate and drank sparingly, and their chief enjoyment seemed to be in their mutual company.

To the goblins’ immediate left sat the family from Sabal. This family had the most children: Sarah counted four boys and three girls. All were tall and somewhat gaunt in appearance, with high foreheads and hollow cheeks. They wore loose, flowing robes, with the only gender difference being in ornamentation. The men wore caps, the women elaborate headdresses that made them seem even taller.

Across from the Sabalians sat the family from Eutheria, the horse-breeders. The king and queen had five daughters. The most striking thing about these people was their hair: very long, the men’s braided, the women’s decorated with beads, ribbons, and jewels. The king wore a tunic, trousers, and high boots. His beard was long, gray, and voluminous. His wife and daughters wore gowns cut in a single piece from collar to hemline, laced on the sides and embroidered with extravagant geometric patterns.

Next to the Eutherians, across from Jareth and Sarah, sat the family from Varan. The royal couple had two sons and two daughters. All six had their hair cropped short. The king and his eldest son had striking green and purple tattoos on their cheeks; the queen and her daughters had multiple piercings, their ears flashing with precious stones. The whole family incorporated a lot of leather and metal in their clothes, which gave the garments a distinctly armor-like appearance.

Sarah had read about each kingdom in Jareth’s library, but none of those accounts were contemporary, so what she’d learned concerned long-ago history. She doubted if any of that knowledge would serve much use now. She wondered what everyone else thought of her, Jareth’s unexpected wife. When Sarah gazed about the room she was sure to keep a pleasant expression on her face, a mysterious smile on her lips.

Out of nowhere, it struck Sarah that the inclusion of children in this very adult soirée might otherwise seem odd. However, the monarchs of each kingdom displayed their children with as much arrogance and vanity as they displayed their rich clothes and jewels. And for good reason—children, after all, assured the continuation of a dynasty. Sarah remembered that Aranea’s death knell had been presaged by the untimely passing of Theridion and Portia’s twin daughters. Children were—here as everywhere—the future. And yet Petronia’s daughter Cassina was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the behavior of the simple-minded child could not be guaranteed, so Petronia kept the girl hidden rather than display to all the other monarchs that her only child was mentally handicapped. Sarah wondered then how much pain it must cost the haughty princess to sit on the throne of her kingdom and know that one day, the succession might pass into the line of her younger sister. If Petronia experienced any such consternation, she kept it well-hidden.

_Maybe Jareth was right_ , Sarah thought. _Maybe she assumes she can have more kids with Tylas_.

The great feast concluded with a sweet course, dish after dish of delectable cheeses, fruit confits, rich tarts, nuts glazed in honey or sugar, creamy puddings and custards, for which most of the guests, gorged into a stupor, had no appetite. By then, Lizzie had started to yawn and fuss, so Lenia summoned a maid, who would bring the baby back to the Falcon Suite. Sarah noticed that among the other families, similar activity was taking place: only the older children remained behind with their parents.

At the front of the hall, Prince Tylas had taken his feet. “Honored guests, please join us in the conservatory for a few hours of music.”

Sarah murmured to Jareth, “After all that food, the only thing I feel like right now is a nap.”

Jareth grinned: he could eat as much as he pleased and not feel any ill effects. He’d not put so much as an ounce on that lean frame of his.

“So little fortitude,” he teased.

Sarah squeezed his hand. “Wake me up if I start snoring.”

(ii)

The timing of the performances allowed an opportunity for the guests to refresh themselves before gathering in the conservatory. Once again, Petronia took her honored seat at the far end of the chamber, Tylas and Lady Gannet flanking her. The royal families had special seating reserved for them.

The great floor, which had been empty when Jareth and Sarah toured the conservatory, now had been arrayed with seats for the musicians, the larger instruments set up around the outer edges. There sat the clavichord, the large harp, a substantial set of drums. Sarah wondered how the instruments were moved from floor to floor. Perhaps there was some kind of freight elevator in this building.

The musicians were already seated. Their plain linen dresses had been replaced by gowns of fine silk, still in blue, the sleeves fitted, the collars edged with seed pearls. The women’s hair was drawn up, but the linen caps had been exchanged for cauls of fine gold net, topped with headpieces in blue silk. The woman who led the ensemble wore a gown of rich indigo damask over a pleated gold petticoat, her headpiece taller and more elaborate than those of the other women.

When the guests were seated, the musicians rose from their chairs and curtseyed as one to Petronia. The princess gave a nod. The musicians took their seats again, and the concert began.

For nearly two hours, the guests were transported to a place of utter enchantment. The musicians played in small ensembles and larger groupings. There were solos on individual instruments, as well as duos, trios, and quartets. Sarah’s ears did not detect a single off-note; every musician was a virtuoso, playing with consummate skill. The performance of the piece she and Jareth had observed in rehearsal was astonishing, the music painting colors in the air. The program concluded with a piece by the full orchestra that left Sarah with her hair standing on end and tears in her eyes. The assembled crowd signaled its approval with a thundering ovation.

As the applause died down, Petronia stood. The great hall grew quiet.

“Please allow me to thank the Royal Players of Aves for their lovely performance tonight.” More applause followed this. “We truly are blessed to have in our kingdom such gifted musicians.” Petronia’s glance swept across the performance hall. “We also have some hidden talent among our guests. I’ve heard say that Jareth, King of the Goblins, is an accomplished musician in his own right.”

A swell of murmurs rose up, and everyone turned to stare at Jareth, who sat unperturbed by this sudden attention. Sarah fought the urge to squirm, and she shot a glare at Lenia, whose too-innocent expression suggested the young woman had been gossiping to her royal mistress.

Petronia continued, “We would be honored to have our brother-king play for us tonight.”

Sarah sat rock-still, hardly daring to breathe, wondering how Jareth was going to handle this command—for a command it was. In a soft whisper of fabric, he was on his feet, strolling with his usual leonine grace to the big harp. The woman who’d been playing the instrument hastened to vacate her seat. Sarah’s heart thumped. Jareth was good, but the women who’d been playing for the past two hours surpassed anything that could be imagined; how on earth could Jareth ever compete with the performance they’d just given?

A thrilled, curious hush fell over the room. Sarah glanced at Petronia out of the corner of her eye, noting the princess wiggling into her seat like a cat about to be fed. She wondered if singling out Jareth represented retaliation for a long-ago snub.

Jareth had removed his gloves and sat fingering the harp, testing the strings. If he were in any way intimidated, he gave no sign of it.

The warm-up exercise ended with no warning, a perfect segue into a haunting, evocative melody. Sarah had never heard this music before, and she wondered if it was something Jareth had seen in the library’s collection. She sat letting the harp’s melancholy song wash over her, astonished by the emotional quality Jareth coaxed from the instrument. Then he began to sing, a harmony in perfect counterpoint to the melody. Sarah could feel the crowd shifting, could feel their incredulity that Jareth’s mind was so keen he could play one thing and sing another. He played and sang all the way through to the end of the piece, without a fault, as magnificent as anything the Royal Players had performed all evening.

A single moment of stunned, absolute silence followed the last note, and then the roar of the crowd. The loudest cheers came from the royal musicians, who more than anyone appreciated the Goblin King’s talent. Sarah could not keep a smug, enormous grin off her face, and glancing about, she saw the naked emotions of the people around her, the women in particular very flushed. Jareth milked the applause, standing up and making a sardonic bow in all four directions, sweeping his cloak like Dracula as he did so. By now Sarah was laughing. To think, the royal musicians had spent weeks in rehearsal to achieve their inhuman perfection; Jareth had only needed a couple of hours with a book of music and one afternoon with a harp.

Petronia’s mouth tightened into a funny squiggle, and it was obvious from her body language that she was none too pleased. She must have hoped to humiliate or at least discomfit Jareth by demanding an impromptu recital, but in light of his performance, it was Petronia who looked foolish. After a pace, her miffed expression relaxed into wry humor and then good-natured laughter. In her own way, she appeared to admire Jareth for outfoxing her. In his seat at Petronia’s side, Tylas applauded politely, although his demeanor signaled boredom.

The performance was over, the crowds breaking up, but it took a while for Jareth to make his way back to Sarah: everyone wanted to congratulate him. He worked the crowd, his charm a potent force, until he returned to where Sarah was waiting.

“You shameless devil,” she said under her breath, smiling.

“An evening’s work,” he responded, slipping an arm through hers. He glanced about. “Where’s our escort?” Lenia had vanished.

“Who knows? I think we can find our own way.” They joined the throngs streaming out of the conservatory. It was late now, well after midnight, but the palace was alive, the rooms full of people talking, laughing, drinking, warming themselves by crackling fires. The royal quarters were quieter, and in the rooms where no fires burned, the weight of the cold night pressed like an unseen glacier. Sarah was glad to get back to their quarters. Jareth’s performance had stirred her in more ways than one, which she conveyed to him once they were alone together in blessed privacy.

(iii)

Lenia materialized the next morning at breakfast. She made no apologies for the previous evening, just announced with a smile that more of the goblin monarchs’ new clothes were ready for fittings. Sarah spent the hours between breakfast and lunch being fitted for the rest of her finery. Even Jareth had to submit to the ministrations of the royal seamstresses, whose keen eyes and skilled hands assured that his cloaks and jackets would be precision-tailored to his frame.

After lunch, they escaped to the northeast part of the palace, to the scriptorium, where they observed the royal printing presses and watched Petronia’s book-binders at their craft. The two Grand Mistresses wore gowns of black linen, so that any mishaps with ink would be less noticeable; the younger workers wore black pinafore aprons over gray dresses: the novices in platinum, the older girls in slate, the adepts in charcoal. In an adjacent room toiled a bevy of illustrators; text might be reproduced on printing presses, but artwork was still done by hand.

After two hours of observing this hive of bibliogony, Jareth’s eyes had begun to glaze over. Sarah laughed quietly, giving him a swift kiss. “Not really your thing?”

“If I ever suffer from insomnia, I’ll know where to find a cure.”

“Why don’t you get some fresh air before dinner? I want to see where they finish the books.”

He kissed her hand. “As my lady wishes.”

Sarah wandered back through the rows of illustrators, moving on quiet feet so she would not disturb the precise, delicate work. Beyond this room lay the area where the books were bound, intoxicating with the scents of leather and glue. The head of this workroom, another Grand Mistress, led Sarah from table to table, and when the tour concluded, she pressed upon Sarah a volume of poetry, each verse accompanied by a gorgeous full-color illustration. Though Sarah accepted the gift with gracious thanks, she had not overlooked the distinction in the types of books being produced. There were unillustrated volumes, whose covers were of glue-stiffened paper, no doubt destined for the booksellers of the Market Circle. The leather-bound volumes must be intended for sale to the denizens of the Queen’s Yards. And the most lavish books, gilded and illustrated, would be added to the royal library, where Sarah wondered if anyone would ever read them. Petronia hardly struck her as a bookworm. And nobody in the Outer Boulevard would be able to afford the most ordinary book; moreover, Sarah couldn’t imagine that those people were even literate.

Lost in thought and paging through the lovely collection of poetry, Sarah made a wrong turn and found herself in a part of the palace she hadn’t yet toured. Her first impulse was to find someone who could re-direct her to the Falcon Suite, but she thought this might be a good opportunity to see the palace on her own, unfiltered by Lenia’s too-careful intercession.

This building seemed rather old, and while sumptuous by everyday standards, it struck Sarah as unspectacular compared to the other areas of the palace. She observed less ornamentation, fewer carvings, less gilding. Less artwork adorned the walls and tables and shelves; the furniture itself was plainer. Judging by the lack of sunlight, most of the rooms faced east or northeast. Candles and lamps burned here and there, and only a handful of fires had been lit.

Sarah’s wandering feet took her through a parlor, one of the few rooms that faced west. From the parlor windows, she could see the rest of the place, and she realized where she must have gotten misdirected. Beyond this room, an archway led out to a main corridor. She turned in that direction, but then stopped short, realizing she wasn’t alone in the room. A cheerful blaze crackled on the parlor’s modest hearth, and sitting in a chair near the fire, positioned so that the rays of the afternoon sun fell across her lap, sat Queen Inula of Vitis, and she was sewing.

Even from across the room, Sarah could tell the queen was darning something simple and undyed, a chemise perhaps, or a petticoat. She stood with her mouth agape. Embroidery would have been one thing for a queen, a decorative cloth or tapestry, but not humble mending, certainly not in a common area like this.

“Well, come over and have a seat,” said Inula with good humor, not at all put out by Sarah’s gawping astonishment.

Sarah recovered her manners and her motor skills, crossing the carpet to sit opposite the Queen of Vitis. The fire was warm and cozy, the chair’s upholstery comfortable. The seat cushion beneath Sarah’s legs felt firm and new, likewise the backrest, as if this chair had never been used. She took in more details: the fireplace was of unadorned granite and fieldstone, unlike the gilded marble virtually everywhere else. The carpets were well-made and colorful, but utilitarian; the floors beneath them were of polished wooden planks. Even the window casings weren’t as deep.

Inula knotted and snipped a piece of thread, examined the seam she’d made, then folded the petticoat into a work basket at her side. Next she drew out a wooden darning egg and began to repair the toe of a stocking.

“Yes, I do my own mending,” the queen chuckled. “We only brought two maids with us, and right now, one has her hands full with Delonix, my grandson. The other is resting.” In answer to Sarah’s unspoken question, Inula said, “I could ask the palace maids for help, but do you think I really want gossip about the quality of my undergarments to get back to Petronia?”

Sarah ventured, “And yet you’re mending them in public.”

Inula laughed, a warm chuckle of genuine humor. “This isn’t public. Nobody comes here. These are the humble quarters, the unfashionable place where embarrassing guests can be tucked away and ignored.” Sarah watched the queen’s needle weave back and forth, closing up a hole in the fine wool. “I’m assuming you’re lost.”

“I got misdirected leaving the scriptorium,” Sarah told her. “I can’t believe this part of the place hasn’t been… I don’t know, refurbished or something.”

“It has, just not to the standards of the rest of the palace. It’s always useful to be able to literally put people in their places. This is part of the old palace, which was much smaller. The original building, the very first castle, is long gone—maybe some of the foundations are still there, but the building itself was knocked down and rebuilt generations ago. Petronia’s foremothers were more concerned that their home be warm and functional and welcoming. It was only in the last five or six generations that they began to build up, to use their wealth and standing to intimidate.”

“Why are you and King Rumex considered embarrassing guests?” asked Sarah. “Do you mind my asking?”

“Not at all.” Inula knotted and cut her thread, then began to work up and down the horizontal stitches she’d made, her needle weaving above and below the threads. She was an unabashedly middle-aged woman, her chestnut hair flecked with gray and drawn back in a neat, almost schoolmarmish bun. She’d made no attempts to alter her plain features and soft jowls with cosmetics. Yet her expression was so warm and genuine that Sarah found her lovelier than the more ostentatious women of Aves. “I’m Petronia’s second cousin.”

For the second time, Sarah’s jaw dropped. Then she remembered the gossipy titters she’d overheard during the welcoming feast.

“Oh,” she said, unable to see any resemblance between the haughty, flamboyant princess and this profoundly ordinary woman.

“Yes, our mothers were first cousins, and our grandmothers were sisters. Petronia’s grandmother, Rhea, was the queen before Eucissa. Rhea had three sisters, and my grandmother was the youngest. Third and especially fourth daughters in Aves have little standing; they’re usually married off in political alliances. So it was with my grandmother, who was married into Vitis, which was considered terribly insulting. Vitis, you see, is the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sarah nodded. She’d read in Jareth’s library that Vitis lacked natural resources.

“We have nothing to offer, nothing to barter with… Aranea has—or had—its jewels. Eutheria has its horses. Sabal has its quarries—all this granite and marble you see here in the palace, most of it came from Sabal. Varan has its precious metals: silver, gold, bronze, copper. Aves has its vast timber forests, and the silks and spices they produce in Telluraves.” Inula smiled. “I don’t need to tell you about the Underground, obviously.”

Sarah drew a blank, but she smiled and nodded, reminding herself to ask Jareth later. Surely their almonds and peaches could not be considered precious commodities.

“But Vitis has nothing. Oh, we have good pastureland for sheep and goats, and in the coldest regions, the goats produce cashmere wool. But it’s not enough to trade with. We could raise more, but there’s only so much arable land, and we need to reserve enough for growing crops.”

“I see,” Sarah responded, still nodding.

Inula chuckled, “Now, someone like Petronia, she thinks our policies are foolish, that more land should be turned over to grazing so we can build up our wool production.” Inula shook her head. “But the monarchs of Vitis have long held that it would be shamefully unjust for the royal family and a handful of their sycophants to enrich themselves while others starve. We share, rather than hoard, the land’s resources.”

“That’s extraordinary,” Sarah told her.

“And yet, we’re scorned for our efforts at evenhandedness,” the queen said.

Against her better judgment, Sarah blurted out, “Who are those people who live in the Outer Boulevard?”

The wooden darning egg dropped into Inula’s lap, and now it was her turn to gawk at Sarah. “How do you—how did you ever—?”

“By accident,” Sarah responded. “Our travel spell went a tiny bit off, and we arrived outside the city walls. We walked through the outer parts of the city…”

“And nobody came to whisk you off to the palace?” Inula’s head shook in disbelief.

“By the time they realized where we were, it was too late,” Sarah laughed. “We’d already seen all of it: the Outer Boulevard, the Market Circle, the Queen’s Yards.”

“Oh, my.” Inula picked up her sewing. “That’s something visitors never see. Ever.”

“So, who are they?” Sarah persisted. “Those people?”

Inula was visibly distressed. “They’re—most of them are salt miners.”

“Salt miners?”

“In spring, they’re herded up to the Great Salt Plain—it’s the old seabed of what once was a vast ocean. They work all summer in the brutal heat—most of them don’t live to be more than thirty or forty.”

_And in a kingdom where people can expect to live centuries_ , Sarah realized.

“Is that why so many of them have lost fingers? And why they’re so bent over?”

“Yes, from hacking the salt out of the rocks. The wind is quite bad up there, too, which blows the salt around, and sooner or later, the miners either go blind, or they die from inhaling the salt dust. I imagine you saw the condition of their skin. At least the peat boggers have it a bit easier.”

“The people with the brown hands?”

“They spend all spring and summer digging and cutting peat to be burned during the winter. It’s hard work, but the environment isn’t so toxic in the peat bogs.”

“And in winter, they all live here?” asked Sarah. “In the city?”

“Yes, in those shameful hovels. They’re not allowed to leave the Outer Boulevard. Once a week, city guards bring around carts of food, anything rejected by the grocers and butchers and fishmongers as unfit for sale. It’s not uncommon for salt miners and peat boggers to die from eating spoiled or contaminated food.” Inula’s calm voice could not disguise her indignation at this.

“So why… who decides… are people just born into those families?”

Now Inula’s face darkened with anger. “No,” she said. “It’s the work the ugliest people are consigned to.”

“ _Ugly?_ ” said Sarah. “It’s punishment for being _ugly?_ ”

Inula sounded grim when she said, “The greatest hope of salt miners is that one of their children might be considered comely enough to be adopted by a peat bogger’s family. And the peat boggers hope they might have at least one child chosen to work as a maid or stable boy for a family in the Market Circle.”

“What about the other way around?” asked Sarah. “Does anyone get… demoted to the Outer Boulevard if they’re considered too ugly?”

“Usually not,” said Inula. “But the queens have always used the threat of punishment—for merchant families, that is. Serious infarctions—and doing anything to aid people in the Outer Boulevard is one of them—can be punished by, say, five years’ labor in the peat bogs. The most serious crimes are punished by a life sentence to the Salt Plain.”

Sarah shuddered. “That’s so horrible.”

“As you can imagine, it’s an effective way to keep people in line.” A log in the fireplace popped and rolled forward; Inula used a nearby poker to push it back into place.

“What about other people; are they ever punished?”

“Only by loss of title or property, which means a loss of status,” Inula said. “Most of the nobility, the people who live in the Queen’s Yards or who serve as courtiers, are related to the queen in some way—distant cousins. I have family here, though most of them would prefer not to acknowledge that. Families who’ve amassed a fortune through trade are sometimes permitted to live in the Queen’s Yards. Punishment of the nobility is up to the queen. Eucissa was known for being severe. I suspect Petronia will be capricious.”

Sarah hesitated before speaking, but Inula’s earthy kindness inspired confidence. Lowering her voice, she said, “I’ve met her daughter.”

Inula whistled, “You truly have witnessed the unhappy secrets of Aves.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Sarah mumbled. “It just sort of happened.”

“Yes. Yes, Cassina, the poor idiot child.”

“She won’t be able to succeed Petronia… will she?” asked Sarah.

“No.” Inula set down her sewing. “I would imagine the issue of the succession weighs on Petronia, more than she’d openly admit. Her mother had insisted on Petronia’s marrying a man named Ulan of the Clade Estrida. Rumex and I were invited to the wedding, which was lavish on a scale that would make even Petronia’s coronation seem meager. The Clade Estrida is the most powerful family in Telluraves; they made their fortune through a monopoly on the spice trade and fruit orchards. They’ve also married advantageously with minor members of the royal family—women like me. Old Eucissa was determined to continue this alliance, and the marriage of Ulan to Petronia was considered a triumph for the Estridians.”

“Until Cassina was born?”

“Nobody is sure what happened,” Inula told her. “I’ve heard say, from our natural philosophers in Vitis, that marriage among close kin can result in problems with offspring; Ulan and Petronia were cousins across more than one generation. He was a good, kindly man, very absorbed in books and learning. Physically, Cassina resembles him—tall, brown hair and eyes. He was very handsome. Much of how you see the Royal Library was Ulan’s work, and he advocated the availability of books to people of the merchant clades. But Petronia never cared for him, and after Cassina was born, she swore it was Ulan’s inferior seed that caused the baby to be a simpleton. It’s possible that Petronia refused him her bed for the rest of their marriage.”

“That was harsh,” Sarah said.

“Ulan lived for centuries, but he was never Petronia’s husband in anything more than name. Queen Eucissa refused to have their union dissolved—she valued the alliance with the Clade Estrida too much. Even after Ulan died—some say he wasted away for want of love—Eucissa wouldn’t allow her daughter to remarry.”

“When did she… when did Tylas come into the picture?”

“Only within the past three or four decades, I believe. I learned of it when I came for Eucissa’s funerary rites—all female members of the royal family, even a pariah like me, were summoned to participate. Eucissa’s body wasn’t cold when Petronia married Tylas. And now there’s tension among the nobility, because Tylas is of the Clade Tinamotus, who’re regarded as upstarts.”

“Are they?” asked Sarah.

“They’ve used Petronia’s fondness for Tylas to increase their own influence. They built up their wealth through fur trade, initially, then expanded their reach to silk. When Eucissa was dying and insensible, Petronia took over the government. She granted the Clade Tinamotus a monopoly on the silk trade coming out of Telluraves. Any merchant who wants to sell silk in Phoebetria has to obtain a license from Lady Gannet, and I gather it’s not cut-price.”

“The Clade Estrida resented this?” asked Sarah.

“How could they not? Everything they’ve achieved over millennia stands to be diminished by Petronia’s second marriage. Both families are watching her belly with the obsession of farmers watching the sky for rainclouds. If Petronia bears a healthy child, the succession will then be in the line of the Clade Tinamotus, and their current influence will solidify into true power.”

“Is Petronia still able?” asked Sarah, too curious to be delicate.

“She’s dropped unmistakable hints that she’s not too old to have more children.” Inula’s mouth twitched. “Palace gossip holds that Tylas is diligent in his husbandly duties.”

“And if she doesn’t…?”

“The line of succession passes to her younger sister, the Duchess Melanitta—who also was married into the Clade Estrida, with happier results. Melanitta has a healthy adult daughter, the Lady Vibiana. It’s probably no accident that after the funerary rites for Eucissa, Petronia commanded that her niece not return to Telluraves.”

“She’s holding her as a hostage?” asked Sarah.

“She might as well be. Vibiana’s taken it in stride—she and her husband will be among the candidates for Petronia’s Royal Court Dancers. Her husband, not incidentally, is also an Estridian.”

_Jesus_ , Sarah thought. _It’s a wonder more kids don’t come out like Cassina, if there’s that much intermarriage going on_.

“So Melanitta and Vibiana have as much of a stake in this as anyone,” Inula concluded.

“Sounds like the makings of civil war,” said Sarah. She tried to envision the Wars of the Roses, if the Yorkists and Lancastrians had lived for hundreds or thousands of years. “There’s one family that’s wealthy and powerful, already married into royalty, now being threatened by another wealthy clan that’s gambling their future on one man’s ability to get his wife pregnant.”

“That’s a tidy summary,” Inula laughed.

“I can only imagine the pressure on Tylas.”

“No, he’s already proven himself. As a youth, living out on one of his family’s estates in the country, he fathered a pair of children on a dairy maid. The little ones are now in service to Lenia’s twin sister, Alaemon. So Petronia knows he’s capable of siring children.”

“She’s not taking chances.”

“Petronia doesn’t have time to gamble on a man who might be barren,” said Inula. “And you can see his physical appeal—the voice in particular. I doubt if Petronia truly loves him, but he’s smoothly-spoken, moves well, and cuts a fine figure. He flatters her vanity. No, her close emotional relationships are with his sister and mother. If you ask me, Lady Gannet is going to be the real power in this kingdom, particularly if Tylas fathers a child on Petronia.”

“Lady Gannet seems fairly extraordinary,” Sarah ventured.

“Her magical abilities are said to be formidable,” said Inula. “I wouldn’t want her as my enemy. The whole family has magic, but of course Lady Gannet has had much longer to hone her craft. In fact, their magical power may be what drew Petronia to them in the first place, even more than their wealth.”

“I feel like Lady Gannet can read my mind,” Sarah admitted.

“Be glad of the Pax Deorum. She may not be able to mind-read specific thoughts, but she’s a master of a branch of magic called mind-casting, which is the ability to discern other people’s emotional states.”

Sarah shivered.

“Speaking of magic, that was an uncanny performance your husband gave last night,” Inula teased. “There’s not many people who can get the better of Petronia, especially before an audience.”

“I hope she doesn’t resent it,” Sarah fretted.

“She brought the embarrassment on herself. She threw down a challenge to Jareth, and he responded in full measure. Fair’s fair.” Inula’s eyes studied Sarah. “You love him passionately—I could see it in your face when he was playing last night.”

Sarah fought the urge to blush, with no success. She could feel her skin turning crimson. With a self-deprecating little wave, she said, “You don’t need to mind-cast that one.”

“Everyone was stunned to learn Jareth had not only a wife, but a daughter, too. I don’t like to pry, but I should warn you, tongues are wagging about who you are and where you could possibly have come from.”

“I expect they are,” Sarah responded, trying not to let her unease show.

“Whatever you do, guard your speech around Lenia. She’s a friendly girl, I’ll give you that, witty and personable. I’ve spoken with her, and it’s almost impossible not to like her. But her family have Petronia’s ear. Whatever you or Jareth say will get back to them.”

“It already has,” Sarah said. “She must have told them Jareth spent half a day in the conservatory, practicing on their harps.”

“So, you see. You don’t want to give the Clade Tinamotus any power over you. You don’t want your secrets to make you their hostage.”

“Thank you,” Sarah told her. “Thanks for the reminder.” The daylight had mostly vanished from the room, and Sarah hopped to her feet. “I should go.”

“Of course.” Inula rose from her seat also. She put a hand on Sarah’s elbow. “Watch yourself,” she said. “You’re young—anyone can see that. Don’t let yourself get caught up in the power struggles of another kingdom.”

“No worries,” answered Sarah. “We’re here for the coronation. That’s it.”

“You’re wise, then.” And with smiles and friendly nods, the two queens parted company.

(iv)

“So, what do we have that’s so valuable?” asked Sarah. Outside the windows of the Falcon Suite, night had fallen; she and Jareth were waiting for Lenia to escort them to dinner.

“You haven’t guessed?” he teased. “The clever Sarah Williams?”

“It can’t be the peaches or almonds,” Sarah pointed out. “They must be able to grow those in Telluraves, if it’s warm enough. It can’t be the brandy—you’d never let anyone have that.” The brandy distilled from the hallucinogenic peaches caused an intense trance state; Sarah had gleaned from her excursions in the library that it could be used to “walk other paths” and acquire certain types of occult knowledge. Sarah knew Jareth well enough to know he wouldn’t barter that power for anything.

Something in his expression suggested she might be getting warmer. Sarah asked, “Is it your crystals?” She recalled that her seeing-mirror was created from the same type of glass, and she snapped her fingers. “The Living Sands!”

A smile curled up the corners of his mouth. “Four guesses? For you, that’s shameful.”

“Four guesses in what, five seconds? That’s hardly dim-witted.” Sarah’s thoughts continued to whirl forward. “Even if you use the Sand to make seeing-glass, you still need the ability to scry.” From her own recent experiences with the seeing-mirror, she knew that skill was not so easily acquired. “Still, I can’t imagine you’d just give it away.” Eyes dancing, Sarah realized, “But I bet you use the possibility as a tease.”

His tiny smile widened into a toothy grin, telling Sarah she’d hit home. How like a goblin not to be generous with anything. Perhaps this explained the fawning treatment she and Jareth had received since their arrival—even if Petronia didn’t give two figs about the possibility of acquiring Living Sand, her magically adept new in-laws almost certainly would. Sarah found herself looking forward to watching Jareth tantalize the Clade Tinamotus with the possibility of access to the Living Sands, even if the thought of a seeing-mirror or crystal in the hands of Lady Gannet caused her a good deal of apprehension.

“But you said only the Goblin King can use the Sand,” she said, thinking out loud.

“Only I can venture into the desert,” Jareth responded. “I can make a gift of the Sand, if I choose—it requires a small enchantment, nothing difficult.” He lowered his voice to an almost inaudible level. “The same way gems taken from the Jeweled Caverns transformed to ordinary stone. The Queen of Aranea had to enchant the jewels with a certain spell before they’d retain their form outside the Caverns.”

“So what’s it like, in the desert?” asked Sarah.

Before he could answer, Lenia announced herself with a knock.

“Later,” Jareth murmured. In bed that night, after love, this was the story he told her.

(v)

The young King of the Goblins had been only twenty when Pontifex Mynoskyrka, the old goblin-sage, had presented himself in the castle and announced that in accordance with long-standing tradition, any king who’d been ruling for five years must show his mastery over the Living Sands.

Jareth’s father, Raedwald, had told him nothing of this, and the indignant youngling protested: had he not been invested by Pontifex Mynoskyrka himself? Had he not mastered the ever-shifting paths of the Labyrinth? Did not every creature in the Underground bow to its new monarch? Pontifex Mynoskyrka, imperturbable, had listened to this sulky tirade, but he would not be budged: Jareth must bend the Living Sands to his will before the next dark moon, or his powers would diminish, and he would wither into a shade, a spectral form unable either to inhabit the land of the living or to rest at peace in the realm of the dead.

Jareth scoured the castle’s library, but he could find not a word about the Living Sands. Raedwald might have intended in time to tell his son about this obscure ritual, but the old king’s life had come to a brutal end when Jareth was fifteen. Days passed, the moon waning from Maiden to Mother; every night it diminished in the sky toward Crone, and Jareth could learn nothing. So with his habitual egotism, he’d ridden north, to the wild lands at the far reaches of the Underground, confident that whatever challenges the Sands posed, he would meet them. His task seemed absurdly simple: to traverse the desert on foot and reach the Great River on the other side.

The moment he stepped into the desert, he felt the immense power of the Sands. A great wind rose up, driving a wall of shifting particles and obscuring Jareth’s view in all directions. Within moments, he was hopelessly lost, unable to tell right from left and up from down. He staggered across the desert, this way and that, Sand blowing into his mouth, ears, eyes, nostrils, down his tunic, into his boots. Even worse were the hallucinations: the voices, the visions, the shrieking and moaning, the glimpses of horrors beyond imagination, the sense of time completely disordered: everything that was or would be jumbled into one unholy phatasmagoria. He had no sense of how long he blundered about, his body weakened by heat and thirst.

At length Jareth pitched face-forward into the Sand, arms reaching out to either side of him. On the brink of unconsciousness, a flash of insight came to him: he needed not to fight the Sands, but rather, to embrace them. He surrendered, allowing everything the Sands revealed to pour through his very being, as if he were transparent, until he and the Sands had become as one. Almost unaware of his actions, propelled by instinct rather than conscious will, Jareth regained his feet. He held out his hands, flexing his mind and allowing his own innate magic to merge with the power of the Sands. Twin columns of tiny gold-flecked pink grains flew up to meet his palms. He pushed his hands forward, and a great wave of Sand roared away from him. He opened his arms outward, palms facing to either side, and the Sands parted, showing him the way to the Great River.

Jareth had no conscious recollection of walking between the walls of Sand to the water, nor of clambering into a little dinghy he found waiting on the shore. He lifted both hands, a gesture of both salutation and farewell, and the Sands went still. Body and mind alive with this new awareness of magic, of the manifestation of his own will, Jareth lay back in the tiny craft and closed his eyes. Behind his lids, the universe wheeled past. The boat drifted into the current of the Great River and bore him away from the desert. Having achieved this enlightenment, Jareth let the river take him with equanimity. When he awoke, the boat had bumped up onto the muddy bank of a small stream not far from the Goblin City. Pontifex Mynonskyrka stood on higher ground, impassive, watching and waiting. Jareth clambered out of the boat and made his unsteady way up to the old sage. With a tiny flex of will, the Goblin King produced on his palm a small round sphere of pure glass, and in its iridescent convex surface, anything he wished to see was revealed.

(vi)

The great hall in the conservatory had been cleared out, the guests sitting in rows of raised seats around the edges of the floor. For this evening, the expanse of marble had been covered with an artificial floor of springy polished pine wood, the intoxicating scent of resin wafting on the air. Sarah could hear musicians tuning up in the balcony overhead. Every seat was taken, and more people had crowded into the room, standing against the walls. An electric charge of excitement coursed through the vast space. A door to the left of Petronia’s throne had been curtained over; from there, Sarah surmised, the dancers would make their entrance. From time to time the heavy fabric of the curtains would gust outward a bit, like lips about to impart some fascinating secret.

In a seat to Sarah’s right, Lenia was flushed with anticipation and squirming minutely, an impatience that many in the great hall seemed to share.

She whispered to Sarah, “We’ve been waiting for months, almost years, for this. As soon as it became known Queen Eucissa was dying, the dancers began to prepare their routines. They’re all Royal Dancers, but only one pair will be Petronia’s personal Court Dancers. It’s a tremendous honor, the highest any dancer can achieve.”

Sarah nodded. She could see, across the vast floor, Queen Inula sitting with her family. The older woman gave Sarah a slight smile of acknowledgement, and Sarah lowered her chin in a tiny nod.

The crowd rose as Petronia and Tylas made their entrance, taking their customary seats at the far end of the room. The princess welcomed the crowd for the competition to choose the Royal Court Dancers. She took a moment to praise all the Royal Dancers of Phoebetria for their hard work and years of dedication to their craft. Then she introduced the Royal Dance Mistress and the Royal Choreographer.

The competition would be judged by a panel of five elderly women sitting at a long table set up to one side of the floor, all retired former Royal Dancers who held the rank of Grand Mistress. Petronia introduced them by name, and they stood, acknowledging the applause of the crowd. Over petticoats of pleated gold, the judges wore damask gowns of a purple so dark it almost appeared black, their hair—white or silver—drawn back in golden cauls, topped with headdresses, almost identical to those worn by the Royal Musicians. At last everyone sat, and the first pair was announced.

As a child, Sarah had taken dance classes—ballet, jazz, tap—at a studio near her home. Although she loved moving to music, her body was unsuited to dance, classical ballet in particular: her feet were rather flat, her legs didn’t turn out in the hip sockets, she was too tall, her frame too large and solid. The December she turned thirteen, she quit those lessons without explaining why to Robert and Irene. Her suddenly zaftig adolescent body had made dancing awkward, and it had drawn too much unwanted attention—from her teacher, from the other girls in the class, from the other girls’ parents. The mothers would glare at her, their mouths drawn into hard lines of disapproval; the fathers would just _stare_. But Sarah loved watching dance performances, and when she visited her mother in New York or London, they always made time to attend a ballet. So she watched these performances with an educated, knowledgeable eye.

The dancers all wore the same costumes: the men bare-chested, wearing simple blousy trousers of purple silk; the women in unadorned purple silk dresses with long sleeves, snug bodices, and full, calf-length skirts. The first group was young, the dancers clad in costumes of deep lilac. The second group was older, their silks in medium purple. And the third group, clearly the most experienced dancers, wore a luscious dark plum. All the dancers performed barefoot, which Sarah thought could not have been easy, even with the artificial floor laid over the cold marble.

There were seven teams in each group, and each pair danced to a different piece of music. Sarah’s keen sense of time told her that each performance lasted perhaps five minutes. She could tell the youngsters had no serious chance of being chosen, but the competition was a good opportunity for them to perform before a prestigious audience. Even the dancers in the second group weren’t truly in contention. The third group, the oldest and most experienced dancers—those were the pairs from which the Royal Court Dancers would be chosen.

All the couples demonstrated certain types of skills—there were lifts, there were turns, there were balances, there were small, fast steps, there were big leaps. Each team did one maneuver where the man had to throw the woman and catch her. Sarah began to recognize combinations of steps, the dancers alternately side by side, or face to face, or one behind the other. As the competition went on, Sarah could discern differences in the skill with which those elements were executed. The older teams were more polished, had better unison, were faster and crisper in their movements, and the elements they performed were clearly more difficult.

During the break between the second and third groups, Sarah asked Lenia about how the routines were created.

“The dancers all have teachers, but the Royal Dance Mistress chooses the music each pair will perform to,” Lenia said. “She works with the teachers to set the tricks the dancers are going to perform. Then the Royal Choreographer decides the overall look of each routine. Petronia’s niece and her husband are the only exceptions—they did all their training in Telluraves, and they’re the Duchess Melanitta’s top dancers.”

“Who decides the order everyone appears in?” asked Sarah.

“The dancers drew lots a week ago,” Lenia told her.

Sarah had observed the five judges making notes in large leather books, and she asked Lenia, “Is there some kind of system for the judging?”

“The judges make notes on everything the dancers do, and when the competition’s over, they’ll compare notes, deliberate for a while, and make their decision. Tomorrow, each pair will receive a detailed adjudication.”

Sarah asked, “Did Queen Eucissa have Royal Court Dancers?”

“Yes, but they died about ten years ago, within months of each other,” Lenia said. “It was quite sad—they were Eucissa’s fourth pair of Royal Court Dancers. Perhaps Eucissa knew she was dying even then, because she never replaced them.”

Excited applause greeted the first of the most advanced pairs. They were excellent, each big trick drawing gasps and applause from the crowd. The next team was even better. The third was also incredible. Sarah began to appreciate the difficulty of the judges’ decision. She also admired the work of the Royal Choreographer, who could make twenty-one individual routines look so distinct from one another.

Beside Sarah, Lenia drew a quick breath, whether of scorn or anticipation, Sarah couldn’t tell.

The herald who was announcing each team called out, “Will Her Majesty and her honored guests please welcome, from the Royal Dancers of Telluraves, Lady Vibiana of Telluraves and her partner, Anser of the Clade Estrida!”

Everyone applauded. Some extra-loud cheers told Sarah that the Estridians had a cluster of supporters in the crowd; a red-haired male dancer in one of the earlier teams had also been from that clade. She looked from the corner of her eye at Petronia, whose hands moved in almost a pantomime of applause, her face set into a too-neutral mask. Beside her, Tylas was so expressionless that he looked like a wax dummy.

A young couple dashed out from behind the curtain and onto the dance floor, holding hands, their faces alight with pleasure. So this was Petronia’s niece, the young woman who might one day become queen. She certainly carried herself like royalty: excellent posture, regal bearing. She was a tall, well-built woman, radiating health and strength. Her obvious intelligence must pain Petronia, whose simpleton daughter was about the same age. Vibiana had glossy dark hair, which she wore like all the female dancers, in a soft braided roll at the nape of her neck. Long, extravagant black lashes framed dark blue eyes. Her face was lovely, with good cheekbones, a clear jawline, and a long, straight nose.

Her partner—and husband—Anser was a handsome man half a head taller, his body rippling with powerful muscles. Like his wife, Anser had thick, dark hair, his cut short and rather blunt to better compliment his strong facial bones. He had brown eyes and a sensual, rather arrogant look to him—an arrogance perhaps born of the Clade Estrida’s long-standing ties with the royal family of Aves. Standing together, he and Vibiana were twins of each other, like a matched pair of exquisite vases. The lines of their profiles were almost identical.

The couple took their opening pose, and the music began, something poignant played by a quartet of stringed instruments. Right away, Sarah could tell this pair was exceptional. If they put one foot wrong, she didn’t see it. In their steps, they seemed to float across the ballroom without touching the floor. Their lifts went up and came down with such smooth assurance that Sarah couldn’t see the entrances and exits. Vibiana was not a small woman, and Sarah admired Anser’s strength in lifting her with so little visible effort. But it was their musicality, their heightened sensitivity to the music, which put them in a class of their own.

The music grew and swelled, a clavichord joining the airy strings, a change reflected in the amplification of the pair’s movements, so that the heartbreaking melody seemed to flow from their very souls. In those moments Anser and Vibiana wove a spell that encompassed all the tender and bewildering passion of new, young love. Even the way they looked at each other made Sarah’s chest ache.

The tempo of the music increased, and the pair spun and turned and leaped, exhibiting extraordinary speed and agility. The final three leaps ended in rock-steady balances, showcasing the two dancers’ breathtaking ability to arrest their forward momentum with ease and grace.  When the music built to its magnificent crescendo, Vibiana seemed to run up Anser’s body: she used his powerful thigh as a launching pad, and he flung his wife skyward. Vibiana twisted in midair, her body parallel to the floor: once, twice, and then she was safely in Anser’s arms again, balancing on his knee in a gorgeous arabesque. The music became softer, and their bodies fluttered down, the movement ending on the floor, in a gentle posture of sated lovers.

The audience went crazy, jumping to its feet and howling its approval. Sarah clapped so hard the palms of her hands stung. They were so good! Beside her, Jareth appeared deeply moved by the emotions the two dancers had conjured. Sarah ventured a look at Petronia, whose mouth was so tight that her lips had vanished.

Flushed and glowing, Anser and Vibiana took their bows, soaking in the applause and adulation. At last the herald gave a signal, and the two ran off the floor hand in hand, vanishing behind the curtain.

“Wow,” Sarah whispered to Lenia. “I don’t envy whoever’s next.”

The two teams that followed were very good, but Anser and Vibiana had set a standard too high to be topped. Sarah kept glancing at Petronia and Tylas, wondering how they’d react if the judges declared Anser and Vibiana the winners.

The herald called out, “Will her majesty and her honored guests please welcome Ralli of the Clade Yacanas, and her partner, Picus of the Clade Irediparra!”

Everyone applauded, and there were even some undignified screams. Like Anser and Vibiana, this team appeared to have a cadre of admirers.

Lenia wiggled with excitement. She whispered to Sarah, “It’s a good thing they’re going last.”

From behind the curtains came a beautiful young man, his hair a tousle of abundant blond curls, his smile a wide-open invitation. The young woman at his side was a small flame: her pale skin a marvelous contrast with her black hair and blue eyes; her features had a touch of peculiarity that verged on exotic. If Anser and Vibiana were a perfectly matched set, Ralli and Picus were a study in harmonious opposites.

The pair took their opening poses. The music chosen for them began with a reedy, oboe-like instrument, a snake-charmer’s melody that insinuated its way into the listener’s ears. The movements of the two dancers mirrored the music, their bodies bending and twisting and intertwining around each other like contortionists. Sarah didn’t see how it happened, but Picus rose up to his full height, Ralli balanced in a perfect handstand on his shoulders. The crowd murmured. Then Ralli sprang up into the air, tucking herself into a tight ball. She somersaulted backwards: once, twice, three times before Picus caught her, lowering her to the floor in a full split.

Before the audience could even gasp, let alone applaud, a seductive percussion joined the reedy instrument: first one drum, then another, then another, beating out a complex polyrhythm. Ralli and Picus found the beat with their feet, the steps matching first one rhythm, then another, then another, transitioning from foot to foot and from hold to hold, all while maintaining incredible speed in a serpentine pattern across the dance floor. The steps concluded with three lifts, each completely different, one right after another.

The wild percussion thrummed to a stop, and now soft flutes took over, slower, signaling a romantic adagio. Here the pair demonstrated their balance and flexibility, as well as their interpretation of the music. Ralli appeared to be a sleepwalker with whom Picus danced but feared awakening, a remarkable effect. They finished with another gorgeous lift, her face serene, his full of yearning.

The percussion took over again, joined by horns: more fast footwork, followed by spinning leaps around the floor, the howls of the crowd increasing as the music built to its climax. Even before the triumphant fanfare of drums, woodwinds, and horns came to a stop, the crowd was on its feet, screaming, cheering, and applauding with such force that Sarah thought the glass in the windows would shatter.

Lenia was jumping up and down like an excited child, shouting her approval at the tops of her lungs. Even Jareth, who rarely showed admiration for anyone but himself, grinned an open-mouthed toothy smile as he applauded. On the floor, the two dancers faced the adulation of the crowd, turning to bow to each side of the room, saving their final deep reverence for Petronia and Tylas. Petronia was on her feet, cheering, her expression genuine this time.

At last the herald signaled for Ralli and Picus to leave, and the two dancers made their exit. The five judges stood, gathering their books and pens, and they filed off, through a doorway to the right of Petronia’s throne.

“Wow.” Sarah found herself shaking with excitement, her hands clammy and sore, her throat parched and raw from screaming and shouting. “I could use something to drink.”

“Come with me,” said Lenia, leading them through the crowds. “We have some time while the judges make up their minds.”

(vii)

Sooner than Sarah would have thought possible, a bell rang, summoning the audience back to the great hall. The atmosphere of the crowd had changed during the recess, becoming more relaxed, almost casual. The guests had ceased their posturing and preening, most of them now lounging in their seats, laughing and talking, comparing impressions of the performances.

When the crowd had settled at last, Petronia signaled for silence. Then she summoned all the dancers back to the floor, first the seven pairs in lilac, then the dancers in purple, and finally the top seven teams in deep plum. When all twenty-one pairs were assembled on the floor, Petronia asked the crowd to acknowledge their performances, which they did with gusto.

The judges emerged from their cloistered meeting in the adjacent room. The five women held their leather books firmly to their bosoms, their expressions inscrutable. One of the judges detached herself from the small group and curtseyed at the foot of the dais before mounting the steps for a brief, whispered conference with Petronia. The princess nodded.

A hush fell over the room. People’s breathing became audible.

The elderly judge straightened up and cleared her throat. In a strong voice she announced, “Your Majesty, the judges have made their decision. The honor of Royal Court Dancers is bestowed upon Ralli of the Clade Yacanas and Picus of the Clade Irediparra.”

The crowd went crazy all over again, howling its agreement with this decision. The victorious dancers embraced on the floor, the other teams stepping back to give them room, applauding despite their visible disappointment. Ralli was overcome with emotion, weeping into her partner’s shoulder; Picus laughed and hugged her, rocking her back and forth, then he lifted her into the air and set her on his shoulder, carrying her around the room. Ralli’s tears turned to gales of laughter, and she waved her arms in crazy, adrenaline-soaked jubilation, drawing even more cheers. Then Picus let her down so they could make their way to the dais and receive their accolades from Petronia.

There was no second place, no third place, no runner-up, no consolation prize. No bronze or silver medals, no red or yellow ribbons. There was one winning team, and everyone else lost. _No “everyone gets a trophy day” here_ , Sarah thought. The other twenty pairs were expected to swallow their defeat without sulking or tantrums. Scanning their mournful young faces, Sarah thought, _It’s not so different from ballet in London or New York or Moscow—dancers always need to have a tough hide_.

Even with the cheers and the laughter and the excitement of the crowd, Sarah didn’t miss the quiet, sympathetic huddle that gathered around Anser and Vibiana. That pair, with their extraordinary emotional quality, surely would have won the competition had it not been for the audacious acrobatics of Ralli and Picus. _That triple back somersault from a handstand was pretty hard to top_ , Sarah thought. Both performances had been astounding: the judges could have chosen either team with complete justification. She glanced at Jareth, surprised at the set of his mouth, the expression in his eyes. She realized he’d thought Anser and Vibiana were the better dancers.

Sarah returned her attention to the floor, where members of the audience now mingled, congratulating the competitors. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of Vibiana’s face, her expression sour, the pretty features distorted by chagrin. The last thing Sarah saw before the mobs closed in was the young red-haired Estridian dancer, his arm around Anser, whose handsome face glowered with fury.

**To be continued…**


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-12-17.

_Five_

The morning after the competition, Jareth and Sarah had the last round of fittings, including their coronation finery. Jareth bore this process with more patience than Sarah would have given him credit, and she experienced a few moments of agonizing panic, worrying that their costumes—they could not in all honesty be called “clothes”—were too ostentatious.

Lenia, who was supervising the process, must have seen something in Sarah’s expression, because she said, “Wait ‘till you see everyone else.”

Sarah jolted, unable to keep a guilty look off her face.

Grinning, Lenia said, “Everyone will try to outdo everyone else. Petronia will be covered in jewels from head to foot. I’m sure it must seem silly and frivolous, but I don’t think you’ll be sorry. It’s best to exaggerate a little, otherwise you risk looking like a poor barn mouse.”

_Like Inula_. From her perch on the raised stand, Sarah managed a wan smile. For the coronation, she had chosen the most ornate, sumptuous design that was offered, and at the encouragement of the seamstresses, she’d ordered even further embellishments. Right now, four women surrounded her, seated on low stools, pinning on extra ribbons and lace. The underskirt of the gown was lace over satin, the hem a multi-layered confection of ruffles and trim. The overskirt, which had been extravagantly swagged back to show a cloth of gold lining, featured even more elaborate trim. The sleeves involved a peculiar cunning: there was an inner sleeve, snug-fitting from elbow to wrist, covered with an over-sleeve like a bell. Echoing the design of the skirt, the over-sleeves were drawn back, lined with contrasting fabric, and trimmed like a wedding cake.

Lenia had assured Sarah that tight-lacing was in vogue for these occasions, and so the royal _corsetiere_ had created a special undergarment for this dress, which created a wasp-waisted silhouette and plumped up Sarah’s breasts to pornographic dimensions. When she first saw the thing, she assumed a mistake had been made, but the head seamstress coaxed her into it, and after fifteen minutes of adjustments, a maid pulling the laces tighter and tighter, Sarah found herself looking in the mirror at a woman she scarcely recognized. She wasn’t sure if she liked that woman or not.

The corset allowed the bodice of the gown to be similarly small and very slim-fitting. The low, rectangular neckline would have been thoroughly immodest if Sarah had not insisted on a frill of lace to shield at least some of her scandalous cleavage. The richly embroidered stomacher panel made Sarah’s waist seem even tinier. Panniers and two petticoats held out the rich fabric of the skirt in a classic Cinderella ball gown shape, the heaviest thing Sarah had ever worn. She wondered exactly how many pounds of fabric she was lugging around. It might be fifty or a hundred, making Sarah feel less like a princess and more like Mother Ginger from the _Nutcracker_.

_This isn’t a gown_ , she thought, staring at herself in the mirror, _it’s a work of architecture. It’s like a bordello in a city block of Beaux Arts, if Gaudí got his hands on it_.

“And I think that’s it.” The seamstresses stepped away, moving their work stools and leaving Sarah to admire the overall effect.

Lenia said, “That’s magnificent. Would you like to see how your cloak will look over the top of it?”

The chief seamstress and one of her assistants angled the cloak over Sarah’s shoulders, taking care not to snag the cloak’s lining on the pins that held the gown’s trimming in place.

Sarah could not help letting out a sigh of pleasure—as much of a sigh as the stays would permit—and the other women beamed with happiness. Lenia looked thrilled, and no wonder. Now that Sarah knew the Clade Tinamotus held a monopoly on silk trade, she realized how much they stood to profit from this prestigious commission. Doubtless Lenia would earn a hefty percentage from steering so much business to her family.

“It’s stunning,” Lenia assured her, watching as the seamstresses removed the cloak. “The colors are so lovely on you.” Sarah vanished behind a folding screen so that the other women could help ease her out of the gown, the petticoats, the panniers, the corset. She exhaled as the stays loosened, wondering how she was going to make it through the coronation and the party afterwards if she could barely breathe. Taking care not to catch anything, she slipped out of the damask shoes with the “Louis” heels that had been made to go with the dress. With a sense of relief, she donned her own clothes, feeling more like herself when she did.

Lenia departed with the seamstresses; Sarah could hear her giving orders as the party trooped out of the Falcon Wing. Jareth appeared, Lizzie in his arms: his garments were less complicated, so his fitting had been less time-consuming.

“I need to get out of here,” Sarah blurted. “I feel like I’ve been living on chocolate and heavy cream for a week. Fancy some fresh air? We could go back to the Market Circle.”

“Haven’t you spent enough of my gold already?” he teased.

“There _is_ that instrument maker’s shop we passed,” Sarah reminded him. Then she said, “Oh God, I suppose we’ll be expected to have some kind of escort.”

His mismatched eyes alight, Jareth said, “There are other means, if one knows them.”

Sarah grabbed her cloak, then his, and said, “Show the way.”

(ii)

“The service tunnels?” Sarah whispered, trying not to giggle. “Jareth, this is really déclassé, even by goblin standards.”

“Hush,” he whispered back.

In Sarah’s arms, Lizzie babbled, excited by this adventure. Sarah whispered, “Shhh,” and the baby fell silent.

So this was how Jareth had been occupying his time. The tunnels must remind him of those beneath the Labyrinth, although these were spotless and easy to navigate. _Where’s the fun in that?_ Sarah wondered. No Cleaners, no False Alarms, no trapdoors leading to sudden death. The stone corridors were strictly utilitarian, lit at intervals by lanterns set into niches in the walls. In the far distance, she could hear faint voices, and her keen nose detected the smells of wood smoke and food cooking. The walls were marked with neat signs and arrows to direct servants. An outline of a falcon pointed the way to Jareth and Sarah’s suite. As they moved with stealth through the passageways, Sarah spotted other signs, each marked with a different bird.

Doors here and there permitted entry into other rooms of the palace, such as the dining room where Jareth and Sarah took their meals. Each door had a small peephole at eye level, which explained why the serving boys always materialized, ready to serve the next course, at the exact moment the previous course was finished. Sarah couldn’t help wondering if other rooms in the palace—bedrooms, drawing rooms—featured similar spy-holes, no doubt concealed in paneling or works of art. She realized her conversation with Queen Inula might have been observed. The entire palace was honeycombed with these passageways.

At a juncture of two hallways, Jareth led her left, then through a door on the right, which opened onto a flight of stone steps. The steps went down at a steep angle; Sarah didn’t envy the servants who had to haul baskets of laundry and trays of food up and down these stairs. About halfway down was a small landing, and here, another door. Sarah glanced down the remaining steps, wondering where they led, before following Jareth through the door and into another corridor.

“This connects to a different wing of the palace,” he murmured, and sure enough, the corridor ended in a door that took them to another flight of steps. The steps went down, down, down, ending at a large, heavy-looking door. Jareth pushed the door open perhaps an inch, peered out, then widened the gap just enough for him and Sarah to slip through. He pushed the door closed again. Sarah blinked: they were standing in a stone passageway with an arched ceiling. The outline of the door through which they’d just stepped could barely be discerned as a rectangular shape in the stone.

_Clever_ , Sarah thought. Jareth turned right, and in moments, they’d emerged into a guards’ room. Before any of the women could so much utter a greeting, the goblins had swept past them with long, confident strides, through the great gate and out into the Queen’s Yards.

“It’s warm today,” Sarah said, gazing about at the trees and fine houses. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was for a glimpse of the sky. And the day was stunning: cloudless, windless, perfect winter weather. “Where are we?”

“That’s the south gate we went through,” Jareth told her. “It only feels warm because of the sun.” This must be the opposite side of the palace from where Jareth and Sarah had first arrived; Sarah remembered that the entire northern aspect of the palace had been in shadow. _Feels like it was a hundred years ago_ , she thought. Jareth nodded upwards, and Sarah saw again the bridge that conveyed visitors of high rank directly into the palace. From this perspective, the bridge seemed very high and remote, and she suspected that was deliberate.

Sarah twirled around, which made Lizzie erupt into giggles. “Freedom!”

Grinning, Jareth took her arm. “Shall we wander, my love?”

“Oh, let’s!”

The day was ideal for walking, and they made brisk progress out of the Queen’s Yards and into the Market Circle, where they melted into the throngs. Sarah wondered if these people had come from outside the city for the coronation: her eye detected several distinct-looking types of garb.

The crowds of people imposed a slow pace, which encouraged observation. Jareth and Sarah wandered into a bookseller’s stall, ate delicious fried potatoes at an open-air market, and stopped to watch a performance being given by a group of about two dozen young singers. These were apprentices, the girls clad in very pale green: warm gowns of a fine wool, appropriate for outdoor performance. A few young boys were included amongst them, their tunics and trousers a masculine variation on the girls’ dresses. A woman in darker green led the ensemble.

There was no instrumental accompaniment. The group sang a cappella on every number, and their command of their voices was a marvel to behold. Sarah could only imagine how these choristers would sound when they were older and more seasoned. She and Jareth stayed until the performance ended.

Further down the road from the performance site was a shop that appeared to have drawn quite a bit of attention. Sarah couldn’t see why—through the crowd she caught glimpses of a sign bearing an image of a shoe and a hammer. A cobbler? A jabber of voices, lively with excitement, congratulated a couple who stood outside the shop, holding court, reveling in this adulation. Sarah observed that the man was handsome, with a prominent, curving chin, and that the woman’s hair was a thick mass of golden curls.

_Of course_ , she thought, _they must be the parents of Picus_. The couple was beaming with pride and happiness at their son’s accomplishment.

“—hope you’re not going to forget about us, now that you’ll be living in the Queen’s Yards,” a woman was teasing them.

“We’ll still have a shop here,” the dancer’s mother said. “We’re not going that far. I just hope Picus can come visit us sometimes… he’s been away training long enough as it is…” The rest of the conversation was lost in a babble of voices.

When they were further down the street, Sarah remarked, “Well, that’s a nice perk. Ralli and Picus win the competition, and their parents get houses in the Queen’s Yards. That’s quite a step up the social ladder.”

“Such exaltation,” said Jareth. “They’ll be dining with the termagant before you know it.”

“It’s too late to turn back,” Sarah joked. “I hope they know what they’re getting into.” Further down, the road opened up into another open space full of market stands. Here, a second congratulatory crowd had gathered around a greengrocer’s, and Sarah discerned that this must be Ralli’s family. So the Royal Dancers included members of market families, and if that were true, so must the other occupations—librarians, bookmakers, musicians, instrument-makers.

_It’s a chance for social mobility_ , Sarah realized—maybe the only real chance. Otherwise, children must grow up working for their families. She noticed in the crowd around the greengrocers a dark-haired young man whose features had the same unusual cast as Ralli’s. He wore an apron over his tunic and trousers, and he was helping another man with an order of root vegetables. Sarah’s mind whirled with questions. Ralli had been sent to train as a court dancer, but her brother remained in the Market Circle, serving in the family’s greengrocer stall. Had he not shown the same aptitude as his sister, or had the family not possessed sufficient means to train two children? Then Jareth and Sarah were borne along by the crowds, and Sarah tucked the questions into the back of her mind. Perhaps Queen Inula knew the answers.

Around a curve in the road was another performance site, a dozen young women in sky blue wool gowns, instruments in hand. The lively music they played could be heard all over the precinct, adding to the festive atmosphere of the day. Jareth and Sarah continued around the circle, sometimes lingering at a merchant’s stall, sometimes pausing by bare trees and empty fountains to let Lizzie crawl around. On the west side of the Market Circle, a wide stage had been set up in one of the parks, and here dancers were performing. These youngsters wore costumes of very pale lilac. Their routines were simplified versions of what had been performed the night before, causing Sarah to smile at their endearing youth, their budding talent.

She and Jareth stayed until the performance was over and the dancers had dispersed. They wandered onwards, and a pace later, they came upon a guarded archway to their left that Sarah was shocked to realize was the entryway from the Outer Boulevard. Two armed women guarded the gate, the tunnel itself vanishing into the thick shadow of the wall. No sound could be heard from the other side of this daunting barrier. Nobody except city guards would venture past this point. The crowds in the Market Circle bustled past the gate like it wasn’t even there, as if refusing to look would somehow render the salt miners and peat boggers non-existent.

The insistent movement of the crowds pushed Jareth and Sarah beyond the gateway. Now they were passing the businesses they’d encountered that first day in the city. In the next open market space, Sarah almost stopped short when she spotted something she’d previously given no notice: the stall of a family selling salt. The woman who ran the stall was gossiping with customers and taking their money while her husband carefully weighed out the precious commodity and poured it into finely woven cloth bags. Sarah knew without asking that the people whose toil had produced the salt would see no profit from their labor.

On the other side of the market space, another family sold peat to customers lined up with small wagons. The holiday atmosphere prevailed, people laughing, talking, gossiping with their neighbors, their lighthearted banter a contrast to the conditions Sarah had witnessed in the Outer Boulevard. Much of the conversation involved the previous night’s competition, everyone in the Market Circle sharing in the triumph of Ralli and Picus. She watched the well-dressed, prosperous people wheeling away carts heaped high with peat, their faces rosy from the cold. _And the peat boggers are burning dung_. _After spending most of the year working in the bogs, they don’t even get to use the peat as fuel._

Through the crowds, Sarah spotted the instrument shop they’d seen on the first day, and she navigated her way across the market area. The inside of the shop was warm, quiet, full of lovely scents. A well-dressed woman circled around the cases and racks of instruments, her expression amazed—whether at the sight of the two goblins or because they were unaccompanied by an official minder, Sarah couldn’t tell. The woman dropped a curtsey and asked, “How may I be of assistance to Your Majesties?”

Jareth spent the next hour roaming the shop like a child in a toy store, trying one instrument after another. These instruments weren’t as ornate as those in the royal collection, but their sound quality was every bit as good. A number of harps were displayed, and one of medium size caught Jareth’s attention. He sat running his fingers over the strings, and Sarah listened, enchanted by the flawless tone. The column that formed the front of the instrument was topped with a head that had been carved into the shape of a lark.

“It’s beautiful,” Sarah told him.

From the harps, Jareth moved on to some wooden flutes, the sound of which Lizzie particularly liked; she clapped her hands to show her approval. The shopkeeper smiled and played peek-a-boo with the baby.

“How old is she?”

“About six months,” Sarah responded.

“She’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a goblin baby before.”

_Neither had I_ , Sarah thought. She gave the shopkeeper her enigmatic smile.

“The Market Circle is full of Ralli and Picus this morning,” Sarah said. “It seems like all anyone can talk about. Their families must be so proud.”

The shopkeeper preened as if she’d given birth to both dancers herself. Sarah had chosen her words well.

“Oh, aye. They were friends growing up—they used to play together, doing their acrobatic tricks. One of the queen’s dance mistresses saw them when they were six and suggested they have a trial. They were accepted into the training program for the Royal Dancers. You see how far they’ve come.”

“Did you see? Last night?” asked Sarah.

“Oh, no, only their parents were allowed to attend. We in the Market Circle don’t merit royal invitations,” the woman said without any apparent resentment. “They’ve danced here often enough, though, and they gave a performance of their routine last month.”

“It was spectacular,” Sarah told her. “Flawless. I don’t think they missed a step.”

“Ralli’s mother was in here this morning, still flying high as a gull over the ocean. I don’t believe she slept a wink last night. She said the court gossip is that the other two didn’t hit one of their tricks.”

“Anser and Vibiana?” said Sarah. “They were lovely. If they had any problems, I didn’t notice.”

“It was the throw they did at the end—she was supposed to turn three times in the air and only turned twice. People are saying she didn’t have the strength for the full three turns.”

“Most of the other teams looked like they did their throws early in their routines,” Sarah told her. “It was risky to wait until the end.”

“If so, it was a risk that didn’t pay off.” The shopkeeper didn’t look like she felt sorry for the losing team. And no wonder—people of the Market Circle would be unlikely to support dancers who had been born into the nobility. They must look at Ralli and Picus as evidence that ordinary youngsters could, given a chance, accomplish remarkable things. Outside the greengrocer’s, Sarah had heard a murmur that “her ladyship’s petticoat was in a bunch,” and she now suspected the remark might be referring to Vibiana. She wouldn’t be surprised if Petronia’s niece found loss to a pair of commoners especially galling.

Jareth had made his choices: the medium-sized harp and two of the flutes. The shopkeeper said she would have the instruments delivered to the palace and would accept payment then.

Outside, Jareth asked, “Did you learn anything significant from all that gossip?”

“You listened to the entire conversation,” Sarah returned. “You tell me.”

He grinned; Sarah could tell he was in a good mood.

“Don’t laugh,” she said. “Sometimes striking up a conversation is the best way to learn things.”

“And you intend to put all this hard-won intelligence to good use?”

“If not now, maybe later. Information is like money—you save it, never knowing when you might need it in the bank.”

Jareth still seemed amused. Sarah didn’t take this to heart—Jareth had been for centuries isolated in his own kingdom and insulated by his own power. He had no use for friendship or alliances of any kind. But that might change. The destruction of Aranea would shift the balance of power among the surviving kingdoms, and Sarah didn’t want to be without allies. It wasn’t just for herself—she had her daughter’s future to consider. She hoped that, given time, Jareth would come to see the value of Sarah’s diplomacy.

(iii)

The day of the coronation dawned cold and clear, another flawless winter day, the sun warming the city, not even a breath of wind to chill the festivities. The ceremonies would begin in the mid-afternoon, and from morning onward, the whole palace seemed to vibrate with energy. Jareth and Sarah slept in and enjoyed a late breakfast at their leisure, knowing this would be their last opportunity for privacy until well after midnight. They would have to guard their words, voices, posture, and expressions all day.

Around noon, they bathed. Sarah had washed and set her hair the night before, and she sat in her shift while Wulfsrun and Elfswhit removed the curling rags and brushed the thick, dark mass into a cascade of waves. Following Sarah’s instructions, they swept up her hair into an elaborate beehive of criss-crossing braids and curly tendrils. With the updo securely fastened, Sarah adorned the pompadour with jeweled combs and clips: gold, adorned with emeralds and amethysts.

She had just finished when a knock sounded on the door. In swept two of the royal seamstresses, glittering with excitement. Sarah would have preferred to be dressed by her own maids, but the intricacies of “the rig,” as she’d nicknamed her gown, were beyond the ability of Wulfsrun and Elfswhit.

The dressers clucked over Sarah’s hair, making minute adjustments to the combs and clips, then they admired the overall effect.

“Shall your majesty begin dressing?” one of them inquired.

Sarah let out a sigh. “Let me visit the loo, first.” _It’s like taking a long drive with Dad and Irene_ , she thought. _You better have a pee, first_. She’d timed her morning meal so that her food would be digested by the time she put on that blasted corset.

Once out in the room, the process began. Sarah donned a new shift of teal blue silk, cut close to her figure so that it wouldn’t bunch up beneath the stays. The long, thigh-high silk stockings were in the same color. Next came the corset itself, the outer fabric in a luscious deep purple, like plums or grapes, and embroidered in teal. Sarah had to hold onto one of the bed posts for dear life, while the maids laced and laced, telling Sarah to “adjust her bosom.” After Sarah hiked up her breasts and shifted them into the most comfortable position the stays allowed, the maids tightened the laces even more. When they finished, Sarah’s face was flushed an unnatural shade of pink.

The panniers came next, and then the teal petticoats, which had been constructed of a taffeta so stiff it could almost stand up on its own. Sarah slipped into the shoes of plum damask—even those had been embroidered with teal—and then stepped with great care into the gown the women held out. There was a lot of tugging, and one of the dressers began to mutter beneath her breath.

“Is something wrong?” asked Sarah, fighting back a swell of anxiety.

“The hooks won’t close. Has your majesty gained weight?”

“In two days?” asked Sarah. “I don’t think so.”

After a whispered conference, the two dressers determined that Sarah’s corset must have been laced more tightly when the dress was fitted, and Sarah was obliged to grab the bedpost once again while they remedied the situation. By the time they were able to get the bodice of the gown hooked, Sarah felt as though her ribs were in the grip of a particularly hungry anaconda.

She stood while they smoothed the skirts to drape over the petticoats and panniers, then straightened her sleeves. Sarah slid the rings she’d selected onto her fingers and scooted down so that one of the dressers could fasten a choker about her neck. The four inch collar of emeralds and amethysts fit like a second corset, which would make turning her head and swallowing difficult. From the choker, a heart-shaped amethyst surrounded by tiny emeralds hung from a gold chain, the pendant stopping just above—and emphasizing—Sarah’s cleavage. The dressers then stood back so that Sarah could examine herself in the mirror.

For the coronation, Sarah had chosen a color scheme of deep purple and teal blue, accented with gold. The bodice and sleeves were purple silk, trimmed with ruffs of teal and gold, and the tight-fitting inner sleeves were cloth of gold. Cloth of gold also lined the purple silk overskirt. The underskirt was teal satin, with an overlay of gold lace. Both overskirt and underskirt were trimmed extravagantly: the overskirt with teal and gold, the underskirt with purple and gold. The stomacher panel was cloth of gold, embroidered with teal and purple. The silk and satin shimmered in the candle light; the cloth of gold gave off its own subtle gleam, and gemstones flashed wherever Sarah turned.

The transformation was complete. Sarah was gone, and in her place stood an eighteenth century dominatrix, a portrait of regal if severe sexuality—a woman set out on delectable, tantalizing display, yet also covered up and caged. A woman who could be desired, but never possessed.

_Formidable, that’s the word_ , Sarah thought. In spite of the restrictive, cumbersome costume, she smiled: a slow, curving smile of pure seductiveness. Hardly the most practical garments, but then there was nothing practical about fetish wear. Indeed, that was precisely the point.

She heard a quiet cough and whirled around. Jareth stood in the doorway, his waistcoat and long jacket in the same fabrics as Sarah’s gown: teal and plum silk, all trimmed with extravagant amounts of gold. His shirt was teal, the cravat edged with generous quantities of gold lace; his tights were plum, his boots and gloves black. His tawny mane was brushed out to its best advantage, the fine gold strands flirting with the air. He looked good enough to eat.

Sarah dropped a coquettish curtsey. Jareth’s eyes roved up and down, lingering on her face, her neck, her breasts. He came and took her hand, kissed it. Sarah felt a wave of heat, imagining later: how she would undress him, how he would undress her. Jareth’s glowing eyes told her his thoughts ran along the same lines.

“My lord king?” she said.

“My lady queen,” he responded. Sardonic as ever he said, “I assume my wife is indeed in there somewhere.”

“You’ll find her later, and I promise the effort will be worth it,” Sarah responded, eyeing him with a smoldering expression. “What do you think?”

“Ah, ‘thinking’ isn’t perhaps the word.”

“Do you think it’s pretty?”

“It’s… extraordinary. Grandiose. Profligate. Shameless.”

“Damn straight,” Sarah grinned. “My ruffles have ruffles.”

The dressers came forward with their cloaks. These were the _pièce de résistance_ : purple and teal, lined with more purple and embroidered with gold, the silk swirling down into extravagant peacock feathers at the hem, fastened with gold chains across the shoulders. Jareth regarded these with evident approval. This was Sarah’s joke: she’d often taunted Jareth for being such a peacock.

A knock at the door signaled the arrival of the minor functionary who would escort them to the coronation. Not Lenia: she would be participating in the ceremony.

_Head up, shoulders back_ , Sarah thought as she descended the stairs, the dressers hastening behind her and Jareth to pick up the hems of their cloaks.

(iv)

The coronation took place in the great hall of the Royal Museum, the largest gathering space in the palace. When Jareth and Sarah had toured the museum earlier, the great hall had been cordoned off. Now, as a herald cried out their names, they made their entrance down a magnificent stairway. At the opposite end of the seemingly endless hall, a pair of thrones had been set up on a dais, shaded with a gold-fringed and embroidered robin’s egg blue canopy. Higher up the fantastically carved and ornamented wall, near the ceiling, another carved golden eagle spread its wings.

Jareth and Sarah were led to their seats in the front row. Sarah lowered herself into her chair, glad it was large and amply cushioned, upholstered in rich damask. She arranged her skirts and leaned back, but there would be no slouching: the corset saw to that. Glancing about, she felt mostly relief that she had gone all-out with their clothes: the other guests had adorned themselves with as much luxurious fabric, jeweled and furred, as their bodies could carry. Her gaze traveled to the dais, which had been draped with deep blue velvet. The canopy of estate had been embroidered and fringed with gold. From the dais, another cloth in robin’s egg blue ran the length of the great hall to a set of massive double doors at the opposite end of the room. The marble steps she and Jareth had descended were part of a double stairway that curved down and around the doorway, forming almost a heart shape.

This great hall was the apotheosis of the extravagant style Sarah had observed elsewhere in the palace. The eye struggled to absorb every detail. No expense had been spared in designing and decorating this room: the carvings, the windows, the gilding, the tapestries, the light fixtures—all of it combined to give the impression of royalty, wealth, power, and unparalleled luxury.

The herald announced the final royal guests, and the family from Vitis made their entrance to a blast of trumpets. Sarah guessed their clothes must be the finest things they possessed, but they still appeared threadbare and shabby compared to everyone else. If this bothered Queen Inula and her family, they didn’t show it. The foursome appeared relaxed, and Sarah thought, _They’re going to be a damn sight more comfortable than anyone else_. Their simple attire felt like a rebuke to the excesses of the others, and Sarah felt a twinge of shame that she’d lavished so much money on her wardrobe.

When the royal families were all seated, musicians up in a gallery overhead began to play a welcoming fanfare, the music coursing through the air in shimmering waves.

The number ended, and an elderly woman in deep red damask emerged onto the dais from a door concealed in the wood-paneled wall. Sarah had learned that red was the color of the Royal Museum workers: the novices in pale pink, the older women in crimson or scarlet. This woman’s dress was almost burgundy, and she wore one of those elaborate headdress-and-gold-caul combinations Sarah had observed on other Grand Mistresses. Even the design of the dress was the same, a gown that opened in the front over a pleated gold skirt. This must be the head of the museum, serving as the Grand Marshall of the ceremony.

“Greetings, honored guests,” the woman called out, her voice carrying right across the great hall. “Tonight we invest Princess Petronia, daughter of Eucissa, daughter of Rhea, daughter of Numida, daughter of Agelastis, as Queen of the Kingdom of Aves.” Polite applause followed this pronouncement. “Please acknowledge our Royal Musicians and Royal Singers.”

More applause. Then the singers began a number, unaccompanied. The voices were astounding in their quality and clarity, and the singers’ ability to sustain complex melodies and harmonies was a marvel. Until they were finished, nobody in the great hall even breathed.

When the applause died down, a girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen appeared on the dais. Long, reddish-gold curls tumbled down her shoulders, framing an exquisite face: alabaster skin, luminous gray-green eyes, a full, pink mouth. Her dress had a medieval simplicity, its lines pure and flowing, but the fabric was visibly silk. A girdle of pearls encircled her slim waist, and on her forehead rested a diadem representing the triple goddess: a disk flanked by two outward-facing semicircles, fashioned of stone that looked like white opal.

“Sisters and brothers of Aves,” she intoned, her voice more powerful than Sarah had expected, “I am the Maiden. I am Artemis, Eos, Kore, and the White Tara. I represent potential: the promise of youth, of spring, of newness and beginnings.”

In college, Sarah had taken a year-long course on world religions that had required students to attend ceremonies of different faiths. For one of her assignments, she’d sat in on the university’s Wiccan circle. This ceremony was like Wicca on the biggest stage imaginable.

The Maiden went on, “In the time before existence, a mighty cataclysm brought the universe into being. From this birthing came the Great Eagle, She whose golden egg brought forth the Kingdom of Aves. All queens of Aves trace their noble lineage back to the Great Mother Eagle.”

_I’ll be damned_ , Sarah thought, _they have creation myths here, too_.

“Good people of Aves, shall we invite the Princess Petronia, daughter of Eucissa, daughter of Rhea, daughter of Numida, daughter of Agelastis, to come forth into this place and claim the crown of her foremothers?”

The citizens of Aves cried out _Yea!_ in one loud, lusty voice.

From the gallery overhead, a woman began singing, her awe-inspiring voice a rich, profound contralto, so powerful that the walls and floor vibrated. This was the voice of the angels of God, whose song souls would hear as they arrived at the gates of heaven. Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes and spilled over, and she wiped her face with an impatient hand, not wanting to miss any of the ceremony.

At the far end of the great hall, the two enormous gilded doors swung open. A pair of guards with tall spears came first, processing at a pace that matched the music with beat-for-beat precision. Behind them walked a brunette woman clad in a gown very like the Maiden’s, but scarlet, her girdle and goddess diadem of rubies. She bore in her hands a ceremonial chalice: gold, studded with precious gemstones.

Behind this priestess walked Petronia, clad in a glorious gown of robin’s egg blue brocade. But her dress was only a backdrop for the garment she wore over it: a sleeveless surcoat, open in the front and covered so thickly with gems that the fabric beneath the flashing stones could not be discerned. It looked as though the entire contents of Aranea’s Jeweled Caverns had been emptied out and stitched to this robe. The jeweled surcoat seemed to absorb every source of light in the great hall, reflecting back the radiance like the blazing light from a thousand suns. Petronia’s hair hung down loose, a waving cascade of fiery vermillion curls. Behind Petronia, Lenia and Lady Vibiana carried the queen’s long train. Lenia’s face glowed with joy, as though this were the greatest honor she could possibly have been afforded; Vibiana’s social mask and dancer’s posture could not conceal her abject humiliation.

Behind the train-bearers walked a lovely old woman in a gown of black silk, hair long and white, her gown adorned with a girdle of onyx, a goddess diadem of the same gems encircling her brow. At the rear of the procession came two more guards.

Sarah had not thought Petronia an especially beautiful woman, but the long, loose hair gave her face an appealing girlishness, and her expression conveyed a sense of rapture, bordering on exaltation. The comical awkwardness Sarah had noted earlier was gone; Petronia moved with such serene elegance that she seemed to float the length of the damask runner to the dais, as though the unseen contralto’s extraordinary song were pouring through the new queen and conveying her to her destiny. The song reached its crescendo, a long, sustained note just as Petronia reached the foot of the dais. In the moment of absolute silence that followed, Petronia knelt on the first step, Lenia and Vibiana gently lowering the princess to her knees.

The scarlet-clad priestess ascended the steps and addressed the throng.

“Sisters and brothers of Aves, I am the Mother,” she called out. “I am Astarte, Bast, Cybele, and Durga; I am Freya, Hathor, Isis, Parvati, and Rosmurta. I represent motherhood, fecundity, the warmth of the summer sun at noontide, the crops ripening in the field. I am mistress of all industry, of designs brought to fruition. I am the full moon in the midnight sky, the bounty of the harvest, the sweet honey of love and desire. As the Great Mother Eagle nourishes and protects her brood, so does the Queen of Aves nourish and protect her people.”

Now the priestess addressed Petronia directly. “Princess Petronia, daughter of Eucissa, daughter of Rhea, daughter of Numida, daughter of Agelastis, do you swear to uphold the laws of your kingdom and protect your people always?”

“I swear,” Petronia responded.

“Do you vow always to rule with kindness and benevolence, as a dove in times of peace; as an eagle only in times of conflict?”

“I swear.”

“Do you promise always to revere the memories of your foremothers, so that their lives and deeds will never be forgotten?”

“I swear,” Petronia repeated.

“Your people have accepted you as their queen. Do you therefore accept the crown of Aves and vow to honor it unto death?”

“I swear.”

“Good people of Aves and honored guests, you have all heard and witnessed the Princess Petronia speaking the five-fold vow of the queen.” The red-clad priestess gestured, and her younger counterpart stepped forward.

“May your mind be blessed with the sweet air of inspiration.” The Maiden removed her opal circlet and rested it for a moment on Petronia’s head.

The red-clad priestess said, “As water blesses the earth, so may your body be blessed with fecundity.” She removed the ruby goddess circlet and rested it on Petronia’s head.

The black-clad priestess, who until now had been observing the ceremony in silence, stepped forward.

“May your spirit be blessed with the wisdom of the ages.” She removed the onyx circlet from her white hair and placed it on Petronia’s head. She then addressed the gathering, “Sisters and brothers of Aves, I am the Crone. I am Ereshkigal, Hecate and Hel; I am Kali, Pele, and the Morrigan. I am the wise woman of ancient power; I am learning, the knowledge of ages. I am empty fields and bare trees, the gray sky of winter. I represent death and the end of all things. I am the Great Raven that accompanies the souls of the departed to the world that awaits.” Returning the focus of her intense, dark-eyed gaze to Petronia, she said, “In all beginnings, there are endings; in all endings, there are beginnings. Princess Petronia, daughter of Eucissa, daughter of Rhea, daughter of Numida, daughter of Agelastis, though this hour marks the dawn of your reign, one day hence it will end. All things pass, and you, too, will pass from this world, your body committed to the holy pyre.” She removed the black circlet from Petronia’s head. “However many years you are graced to reign over Aves, we bid you to use that time wisely and well.”

The unseen soloist began another song, no less awe-inspiring than her first. From the door concealed in the paneling, a figure emerged, and the three priestesses stepped to one side, each woman’s hands held before her girdle and shaping a yoni, fingers and thumbs touching. The woman who appeared on the dais must be the High Priestess: she was ageless, beautiful, rather terrifying, her robes a shifting swirl of multicolored silk, her goddess diadem larger than those of the other women and incorporating all three colors: white, red, black. In her hands she carried a cushion of robin’s egg blue velvet, upon which rested a gold crown. The band of the crown was studded with alternating stones of opal, ruby, and onyx, and the top portion of the crown had been fashioned into the shape of a magnificent eagle with outspread wings. Sarah had no doubt the thing was crafted of pure gold.

When the song ended, the High Priestess stood before Petronia, and the Crone took the eagle crown from its cushion. She held up the circle of gold so that the whole assembly could see the eagle, the shimmering gemstones. Then she placed it with great care upon Petronia’s auburn hair.

The Mother handed the gem-studded golden chalice to the High Priestess who elevated it as she had the crown. In a melodious voice she called out, “I am the cup of wine of life, the Cauldron of Cerridwen, and my love is poured out upon the earth. Let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honor and humility, mirth and reverence within you.” Then she lowered the cup to Petronia. After the new queen had taken a swallow, the High Priestess proclaimed, “So mote it be.”

The Crone took away the chalice, and the High Priestess addressed Petronia. “Petronia, daughter of Eucissa, daughter of Rhea, daughter of Numida, daughter of Agelastis, you have taken the five-fold vow of the queens of Aves and received the blessing of the three-fold Goddess. You have drunk from the Cauldron of Cerridwen and received the crown of your ancestors. Arise now as Petronia, Queen of Aves.”

A great thunder of applause and cheering greeted this pronouncement. Lenia and Lady Vibiana hastened to assist Petronia to her feet, and the new queen turned to face the loving tribute of her subjects and guests. She’d managed to compose her face into an expression of mildness and humility, but there could be no mistaking the flush of triumph in her cheeks, the gleam of avarice in her blue eyes.

Sarah thought, _She’s been waiting for this a **long** time_.

When the cheering and applause died down, the High Priestess addressed the crowd. “A queen must have a consort, so that the line of her foremothers may continue. Queen Petronia has already taken to husband Tylas of the Clade Tinamotus. Will he please come forth?”

From a seat near the dais, Tylas rose and strolled forward, kneeling where his wife had been a moment earlier. The High Priestess said, “By the authority given me by the queens of Aves, I invest you, Tylas of the Clade Tinamotus, as Consort of Aves.” She placed on his black curls a simple gold coronet, completely unadorned. Beaming with happiness, Petronia offered a hand to her husband, and he rose to his feet.

_That’s it?_ Sarah wondered. No vows, singing, no fanfare, as quick and perfunctory a ceremony as Sarah had ever seen, almost as though the king were an afterthought.

Tylas and Petronia mounted the dais and took their seats in the two thrones beneath the blue canopy, to the sound of the throngs of people cheering themselves hoarse.

An instrumental number followed, played to superb perfection by the Royal Musicians, then a vocal piece, then another instrumental, the music a great swell of celebration and gladness. At the conclusion of the third piece, Petronia rose to her feet, Tylas at her side. The assembled crowd also stood. The brass instruments began another fanfare. Two guards led the recessional, followed by the Grand Marshall. The new queen and king came next, Lenia and Lady Vibiana once again carrying Petronia’s train. The three priestesses followed: the Crone, bearing the gold chalice, the Mother, bearing the blue velvet cushion, and the Maiden. Two more guards brought up the rear. The High Priestess, Sarah noted, had vanished. The crowd thundered its approval until the final two guards had passed beyond the double doors. The entire ceremony from start to finish had taken exactly one hour.

A buzz of excited conversation rose above the mass of spectators. Sarah slipped her arm through Jareth’s.

“And to think, our entire wedding ceremony was what, a minute long? And half of that was Pontifex Mynoskyrka rattling through your grandfathers’ names.”

Amused, Jareth said, “I hope you don’t feel slighted?”

Leaning closer, Sarah murmured into his ear, “‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’”

Jareth whispered in return, “Well, thank heavens we don’t.”

Sarah grinned, and they took their places in the train of royal families that followed the recessional out of the great hall.

(v)

“Oh, you both look so wonderful!” Lenia caught up with them as they waited to make their entrance into the Winter Hall. “I knew those designs would be splendid on you! The colors are so spectacular! How did you like the coronation?” she gushed. “Wasn’t it lovely?”

“It was beautiful,” Sarah responded, giving the young woman’s arm a warm squeeze. “What an honor for you.”

Lenia glowed all over. She looked utterly luscious in a gown of crimson crushed velvet, embellished with heavy, ornate gold trim. Her hair was wrapped and twisted around a ruby-studded gold coronet. The low, square neckline of her gown set off her white shoulders and décolletage to luminous perfection. A gold filigree collar about her neck sparkled with yet more rubies, the largest of which was a teardrop pendant that drew the eye to her cleavage. Lenia had indulged in the fashion for tight-lacing, her waist so tiny Sarah felt like she could span it with her hands. The full skirt of Lenia’s dress was open in front, swagged back like Sarah’s, to reveal a cloth of gold underskirt. More cloth of gold lined the full sleeves of the dress. The effect of all that red, surely calculated, was to make Lenia’s blue eyes appear almost purple.

“That robe Petronia wore is incredible,” Sarah said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was otherworldly.” Sarah didn’t think it would hurt anything to lay on the flattery.

Lenia nodded with enthusiastic agreement. “It’s only ever worn by the queen at her coronation. Otherwise, it’s locked up with the rest of the royal jewels. She won’t wear it for the feast, of course—she couldn’t sit comfortably on all those stones, and it’s so heavy that Vibiana and I had to help her get into it.”

Vibiana’s name fell with casual nonchalance from Lenia’s tongue, but Sarah didn’t miss the tiny inflection in her voice, the slight way Lenia’s lips quirked up to one side, the brief flare of combative light in her eyes.

Sarah asked, “The music was glorious. Who was the soloist?”

“That’s the Voice of the Goddess,” Lenia told her.

“No, who is she?” Sarah realized right away this was a mistake: Lenia’s shocked expression suggested Sarah’s question represented a gross indiscretion.

“Forgive me,” Sarah said quickly. “I didn’t realize.”

Lenia regained her self-control, but only after a moment of struggle. “Of course not; how could you know?” she said. She smiled, but it was tight, not Lenia’s usual smile. Relaxing a bit, she said, “Those who serve the Goddess withdraw from worldly life. Only a few priestesses have public roles, at ceremonies like these. The rest are never seen.”

“Even by their own families?”

Lenia shook her head. “It’s a tremendous honor when a young girl shows the aptitude for a life devoted to Her. Most families are proud to give up a daughter to the service of the Goddess. It’s sad for them, but it would be so much sadder to deny their daughter’s sacred calling.”

Entrance to the sisterhood must depend on magical abilities, Sarah realized. She filed this away, another thing to ask Queen Inula about. There must be more to it than magic; Lenia’s mother and grandmother, for example, were not part of the order.

Lenia went on, “The Voice of the Goddess renounces her name—she has no other identity. She’s heard, but never seen, and only at sacred ceremonies. They say she’s always veiled, even to the other priestesses, and only the High Priestess ever sees her face.”

Sarah nodded, trying to imagine what this cloistered, goddess-worshipping community must be like. She wondered what else the women must be required to give up. Sex? Personal property? The chance for marriage and children? She glanced at Jareth, who affected fascination with a tapestry on the wall behind them.

The voice of the Grand Marshall interrupted the conversation. The feast was about to begin.

“I need to go,” Lenia said. She’d be sitting with her own family tonight. “Don’t miss out on the dancing afterwards!”

“Not a chance,” Sarah told her, reaching for Jareth’s arm.

(vi)

The approaching Yuletide had influenced how the Winter Hall was decorated for the feast: boughs of evergreen, strands of ivy around the tall columns, sprays of holly in tall vases. The scents were pungent, intoxicating. Deep red and creamy white roses were massed in bowls on the tables, the colors a contrast with the forest green damask tablecloths.

The tables for the royal families had been set up on the floor, with tables for the lesser nobility scattered around them, and tables for the other guests on the raised platforms around the outer perimeter of the hall. Petronia and Tylas shared a table on a raised dais at the head of the hall. Petronia had removed not only the jeweled robe, but the eagle crown as well. She appeared relaxed and comfortable in her simply cut gown of robin’s egg blue brocade. Her red hair had been swept up and wrapped around a circlet, much like Lenia’s, only her circlet was larger and more ornate, studded with sapphires the size of golf balls. Her teardrop-shaped earrings and a starburst pendant flashed with more sapphires and accents of diamonds.

At a table at the foot of the dais—with the closest proximity to the queen and king—sat Lenia, her mother, and her grandmother. Lady Gannet’s gaze swept the great hall from time to time, missing no detail. At the far end of the room, furthest from the queen, sat Lady Vibiana with her husband Anser and a few other members of the Clade Estrida. Sarah recognized the red-haired young male dancer from the night of the competition. They could not have been more obviously ostracized; even Queen Inula and her family sat closer to Petronia. Lady Vibiana wore a gown of dusty rose pink that flattered her complexion but didn’t, Sarah thought, convey much sense of strength. Her glossy dark brown hair had been drawn up and dressed with roses rather than jewels, and she wore a lovely collar of pink and white pearls, but the overall effect was more suited to a debutante cotillion than a royal coronation.

_She looks like a giant powder puff_ , Sarah thought, fighting the urge to giggle. Anser, like most of the men, had dressed to coordinate with his wife: his trousers were black, his shirt in a pink one shade deeper than Vibiana’s dress, and his elegant frock coat was burgundy damask, trimmed with gold and pearls. Sarah suspected they’d wanted to set themselves apart from the intense colors and ostentatious gemstones everyone else would be wearing. If so, the plan had backfired, making the couple appear very young and insignificant. Both dancers’ faces were set in sour, sulky expressions, which did nothing to diminish the impression that Anser and Vibiana were little more than a pair of petulant teenagers being forced to sit through a boring, grown-up occasion.

The Grand Marshall called for everyone to rise, and a toast to the health of the queen and king was proposed. Everyone raised their golden goblets to Petronia and Tylas, wishing them long lives and good fortunes. The guests took their seats again after the royal couple had taken theirs, and then the parade of servants bearing food and drink began.

(vii)

Sarah paced herself throughout the feast, eating only tiny nibbles from each course and taking sips of the accompanying wines. Around the great hall, she could see other women employing the same strategy; Sarah wasn’t the only one with a tight-laced bodice. She used the time between courses to make discreet observations of the other guests: the queen from Eutheria drinking too much wine; the king from Varan gorging himself from every dish and platter that passed before him. Lenia and her mother Jacama conversed in whispers, their heads tipped together, almost touching, while Lady Gannet ate next to nothing, her piercing gaze sweeping the great hall like a searchlight. Queen Inula and King Rumex of Vitis sat shoulder to shoulder, laughing, savoring each dish, enjoying lively conversation with their son and daughter-in-law. Sarah took a moment to admire their son, a good-looking young man with reddish-gold curls and an easy, infectious smile.

In the gallery overhead, musicians played: strings, harp, and clavichord, neither too loud nor too obtrusive, but combined with the sounds of eating and the clink of dishes and glasses, eavesdropping proved a challenge, even with Sarah’s keen hearing. She wondered if Lady Gannet could read lips: perhaps that explained the probing intensity of her stare. Sarah made sure to angle her face out of Lady Gannet’s view whenever she spoke to Jareth.

Sarah also tried to avoid staring at Petronia, the subject of inevitable attention and scrutiny. The new Queen of Aves sat in her large, plushly cushioned throne, while a stream of attentive serving boys brought out course after course. Beside her, Tylas kept up a stream of conversation. Petronia smiled and nodded, responding from time to time, but her sapphire gaze rarely focused on him: instead, her eyes turned from side to side, at one moment staring at a table on the far right of the hall, at another moment focusing on the royal family of Sabal. The blue eyes flicked toward Tylas, and she patted his hand with hers, then the eyes resumed their roving, scanning the tables along the left side of the hall. Sarah wondered what she was watching for—perhaps signs of disloyalty or insurrection; any indication that a new faction might be forming, or joining with another to conspire against her.

Sarah couldn’t imagine how exhausting it must be to harbor such suspicions, but being queen in a place like Aves must require constant diplomacy, considerable political acumen, and unwavering vigilance—unlike Jareth, who only had to kick around the goblins to keep them in line. Sarah felt relieved that she and Jareth ruled over relatively simple creatures. She wouldn’t want to be like Petronia: hard-edged and mistrustful, always looking over her shoulder.

After a while, it occurred to Sarah that Petronia wasn’t eating much. Nerves? The new queen had not opted for tight-lacing, so it couldn’t be her corset. A couple of times, Sarah detected a slight grimace around Petronia’s mouth, barely perceptible, like a kid who had learned not to let a dislike of vegetables show. Had the royal chefs prepared a dish that displeased their mistress? But it seemed as though Petronia didn’t care for anything she was served. She made a good pretense of sampling from every dish, but Sarah, who had known girls with eating disorders in both high school and college, observed that platter after platter was taken away from the queen with the food almost untouched. Petronia wasn’t even enjoying the wine. At one point, the queen’s hand drifted for a moment to her diaphragm, as if to stifle a belch, then returned to her lap.

A serving boy placed a dish before Jareth and Sarah, nuts and root vegetables in an ingenious cream sauce that had been made from almonds. Sarah took a couple of dainty nibbles, savoring the herbs in the dish. In the entire time of her visit to Aves, she’d yet to taste one thing that was less than delicious. But Petronia, who surely would be served a menu of her very favorite foods, acted as though she were consuming rancid cabbage. Her little pantomime of eating might fool others, but it didn’t fool Sarah.

For a moment, Sarah’s jaw muscles froze, a half-crushed cashew jammed in her molars. _Holy shit!_ she thought. _Petronia must be pregnant_. She realized her moment of amazement had been observed by Lady Gannet; Sarah forced herself to keep chewing and tilted her face downward, but she feared she’d already been caught out. After a moment, Sarah relaxed. Surely she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Any woman who’d been through the early stages of pregnancy and experienced the havoc that could wreak with one’s taste buds would realize the cause of Petronia’s diminished appetite.

_She might be doing it on purpose_ , Sarah thought. _It’s subtle and at the same time not very subtle at all_. Indeed, the new queen appeared to be sending a clear message, and gossip about her condition would be buzzing among the tables before the sweet course was served.

The feast was interminable. Long after Sarah had lost any appetite for food, the flow of dishes and platters continued. Sarah wondered what would be done with the leftovers—would they be brought to the people in the Outer Boulevard? Did Petronia and her ilk even have a concept of charity?

The desserts began to appear, everything from creamy custards to astonishing creations of marzipan wheeled out on carts, including a gigantic golden eagle. A large, intricate replica of the entire palace drew applause from the guests. Sarah nibbled on some candied fruits, watching with sated eyes as the parade of sweets went past.

When everyone had gorged themselves almost to bursting, the Grand Marshall began to announce the queen’s coronation honors. A handful of guards were promoted to captain. Two captains were promoted to sergeant, and one sergeant to lieutenant. A few young women in pastel-colored gowns were elevated from apprentice to adept of their various crafts, and one adept was promoted to Grand Mistress.

Petronia also had chosen new members of her household staff from among the nobility, and these young women came forward to receive a sash of office: robin’s egg blue silk embroidered with a golden eagle. Four of these were named ladies-in-waiting to the queen, including Lady Vibiana.

Judging by Vibiana’s expression, this honor was not expected, nor was it particularly welcome. Still, she made her way across the expanse of the great hall to accept her blue sash from Petronia. Sarah got a better look at Vibiana’s dress when the dancer returned to her seat: the pink fabric was of gorgeous silk with a pleated white underskirt and plenty of trim in white lace and pearls. The construction of the dress was top-notch, but it still made Sarah think of something a teenager might wear to her senior prom.

In acknowledgement of “loyalty and service to the royal family,” Lady Gannet was raised to the nobility and given the title Baroness Gannet, along with a new house in the Queen’s Yards and a farm to the north of the city. Her daughter Jacama was created Lady Jacama and named the queen’s Royal Weather-Worker. These honors confirmed Sarah’s suspicion of Petronia’s pregnancy. Further rewards would come to the Tinamoteans if Petronia delivered a healthy daughter.

The last honors went to merchant families who were granted leases to homes in the Queen’s Yards, including the parents of Ralli and Picus. Sarah had not seen the two dancers all evening, and she wondered if they would perform as part of the entertainment scheduled to follow the feast.

The banquet ended with the crowd standing as Petronia and Tylas made their exit. After the monarchs vanished, Sarah indulged in the luxury of a full-body stretch. She didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to be on her feet, not even after a trans-Atlantic flight.

In the ensuing din, Queen Inula brushed past Sarah. “Good evening,” she said. “What a lovely dress! Those colors are so striking.” Her praise could not have been more genuine; if she disapproved of Jareth and Sarah’s wanton sartorial excesses, she gave no sign of it.

“Thank you,” Sarah responded.

“Might I introduce my husband? King Rumex of Vitis.”

Jareth and Sarah shook hands with the king, a lean, ropy man of middle years. Graying blond hair swept back from his forehead, and his blue eyes blinked with alarming rapidity. He stood only an inch or two taller than his wife.

“Such a pleasure to meet the famed Goblin King at last,” he said, his voice droll but sincere. “Please accept my belated congratulations on your marriage and the birth of your daughter.” Jareth and Sarah murmured their thanks.

Inula said, “And this is our son, Agrostis.”

Sarah shook hands with the young man, who loomed over both his parents. He must stand easily six one or two, taller than Jareth and Sarah by half a head. He had a long-limbed, graceful body and an angular face. Red-gold curly hair swept back from a high forehead; like his father, Agrostis was thinning out on top.

“My pleasure,” the young man said, also shaking hands. “May I introduce my wife, Marsilea?”

Marsilea appeared to be in her mid-twenties, a slim young woman with golden-blonde hair and honey-brown eyes. Every time she looked up at her husband, she positively glowed. He kept beaming down at her. They must still be honeymooners.

“So pleased to meet you,” she said. Like her husband and in-laws, she had a friendly, welcoming smile and a confident handshake. She and Agrostis wore clothes of warm red and brown velvet. Inula and Rumex wore mostly black, trimmed with a modest amount of silver.

Marsilea slipped her arm through Sarah’s. “They say there’s rooms set aside where we can refresh ourselves before the entertainment and dancing begins. Ladies on one floor, gentlemen on the other.”

“I guess I’ll see you when the party starts,” Sarah told Jareth, smiling back at him. He grinned, not even seeming to mind that Agrostis and Rumex were corralling him in one direction while Inula and Marsilea steered Sarah in another. Around them, servants were already taking away tables and chairs, opening up the floor for dancing. In the gallery overhead, musicians were warming up, the notes of music fluttering like butterflies in the air.

**To be continued…**


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-12-17.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes. **This chapter contains graphic sexual content, including bondage play and dirty talk**.

_Six_

A bevy of maids swarmed around the salon set aside for the women’s use. Some servants bore needles and thread, ready to repair any sartorial mishaps. Others held brushes, combs, and pins, with which to tackle wayward hairdos. There even was a cobbler at hand to remedy footwear fiascos. All the vertical surfaces were covered with mirrors, allowing the women every opportunity to inspect and admire themselves. Many guests had painted their faces for the evening, and they utilized the multiple dressing tables, re-applying powder, rouge, and lip color. A maid near Sarah was helping a woman re-pencil her eyebrows. A pair of craftswomen in gowns of burnt orange damask stood ready with tiny pliers, lengths of fine gold and silver wire, glue, and boxes of gemstones in every conceivable size and color. As Sarah watched, they aided a guest whose earring had come adrift.

“The Royal Jewelers,” said Inula, following Sarah’s line of vision.

“I haven’t seen them yet. They weren’t on the official tour.”

“They wouldn’t be. Security is very strict. The queens of Aves have the most extensive jewel collection you’ll see, especially because Petronia’s brother Theridion was married off to Queen Portia of Aranea. Old Queen Eucissa brokered the match, and she insisted on a substantial marriage settlement in exchange for her son. Most of his jointure was paid in jewels.”

Sarah nodded and made an interested but noncommittal noise.

Inula went on, “The jewelers here are experts at their craft. Of all the royal artisans, the jewelers undergo the most grueling apprenticeship. Only the most gifted are allowed to practice.”

“You can see why,” Sarah responded. “A dance routine or a piece of music can be repeated if it’s not right, but a ruined gemstone can’t be easily or cheaply replaced.” In a mirror, she examined her own jewelry to make sure it was still on straight. The thick, punishing collar of amethysts and emeralds forced Sarah to hold her head very high, and she frowned at her arrogant reflection. She made a subtle adjustment to her stays, hoping her bust wouldn’t come flying out of the corset when she was dancing. Many of the other women wore equally daring styles, but Sarah had not realized just how uncomfortable she’d be with this public semi-nudity and the attention it drew. _Too late now_ , she thought, straightening up and trying to feel as self-possessed as the woman in the mirror appeared.

She couldn’t help casting glances over at Inula and Marsilea. Inula’s black gown was accented with jewelry of pearls and small diamonds. Marsilea wore an elegant rope of garnet and topaz, with matching stones in her ears. Both women looked appropriate for the occasion, but not overdone, and Sarah found herself wishing she’d likewise opted for something less ostentatious.

She excused herself to use one of the water closets, and the absurdity of her costume was brought home to her when two maids had to assist her, lifting the voluminous skirt so that she could hunker over the toilet. Outside, Sarah washed her hands in one of the many basins of rose-scented water that had been set out for the ladies’ use. As she dried her hands on a proffered towel, she listened to the murmur of conversation, the ripples of laughter, and she inhaled the cloying perfumes of these pampered, over-indulged women.

A group seated nearby were gossiping about Lady Vibiana. Sarah pretended to fuss with her hair at a dressing table so she could eavesdrop.

“…able to keep dancing?”

“As a lady in waiting, I can’t imagine she’ll have time. She’ll be waiting on Petronia hand and foot.”

“Do you think it was deliberate? To keep her and Anser from dancing?”

“Who can say? Her majesty wouldn’t want anyone to overshadow her _pets_ , would she?”

A wave of unkind titters followed.

“She dances like she’s throwing around vegetables in her mother’s market stall.” Sarah realized “she” must be Ralli.

“He’s not much better,” another voice opined. “A cobbler’s son, isn’t he?”

“No grace at all,” said the first voice. “Their title ought to be Royal Court Acrobats, because they’re certainly not _dancers_.” More titters followed this.

“They keep those arms moving, though. It’s like an optical illusion. If the judges hadn’t been distracted by the arms and had paid more attention to the feet, maybe the results would’ve been different.”

The complaints about Ralli and Picus piled up like letters in a post office.

“He throws her from one position to another.”

“No unison.”

“No line.”

“No finesse.”

“No musicality.”

“No extension.”

“Their routine was clever subterfuge—all that drama hid their flaws.”

After a pause, someone said, “The competition was a farce. Why even bother? Petronia knew who she wanted.”

“Petronia didn’t judge, though,” another woman pointed out.

“What difference did it make?” the first voice scoffed. “The judges knew the results Petronia wanted, and delivered them. Playing favorites, you can just tell.”

The other woman argued, “And if Petronia’s niece had been chosen, that _wouldn’t_ have been favoritism?”

Voices rose up, crossing over each other as each woman tried to interject her opinion, cutting the others off.

“Everyone knows Petronia hates Vibiana,” one of the women hissed. “She’d never have her and Anser as her Court Dancers. Vibiana missing the third turn on that throw was just a convenient excuse. If the judges had been unbiased, they would’ve ranked Anser and Vibiana’s basic skills over the other two’s flailing and posturing.”

_Jesus_ , Sarah thought, _it’s like listening to a bunch of high school girls debate the results of a Miss America contest!_ Her mind went back to the night of the competition. She had not observed any obvious flaws in Picus and Ralli’s basic technique, nor did she think that missing the triple turn had doomed Anser and Vibiana’s chances. Ralli and Picus had undeniably had the better night, as difficult as that might be for their detractors to accept. _“Flailing and posturing?”_ Sarah thought. _Seriously?_ She suspected that class snobbery was coloring the women’s opinion of the two dance teams. They couldn’t wrap their minds around the notion that a couple of kids from the Market Circle might possess more talent than children of noble parentage.

The conversation switched courses, the women now debating whether a greengrocer and a cobbler should be allowed to lease houses in the Queen’s Yards. Sarah scolded herself, ashamed that she’d been even listening to the poisonous gossip, let alone giving it any credence. She located Inula and Marsilea, lowering herself into an upholstered chair beside the two women.

“Are you all right?” murmured Marsilea.

“Yes, fine,” Sarah breezed in response, schooling her angry scowl into a pleasant smile. She said, “There was so much food leftover from the feast; I wonder whatever happens to it all.”

Inula told her, “Some of it will be served again tomorrow. Nobody’s going to feel much like eating after tonight, so it doesn’t make sense for the kitchens to prepare a lot of fresh dishes. Anything left after tomorrow will be available to the palace servants and city guards. At the end of the week, the remains will be distributed among the city’s less fortunate.”

Inula had been keeping her voice very quiet, and Sarah nodded her understanding. She could only imagine the state the food would be in after a week.

In a more ordinary speaking voice, Sarah said, “I was fascinated by the priestesses who performed the coronation. They all had such wonderful presence, and they made the ceremony so beautiful.”

Inula nodded. “It was an honor to have them lead the ritual. Women who serve the Goddess live in the temple and not many are seen, only on public occasions.”

“Where’s the temple?” asked Sarah. “I don’t believe I’ve seen it.”

“It’s at the very center of the palace, accessible only from an entrance in the queen’s quarters,” Inula said. “The priestesses lead a cloistered life, away from everyday concerns. They’re said to have a tunnel that leads far outside the city walls, to a sacred woodland grove. Only those who serve the Goddess are allowed there.”

“That seems like a very difficult life,” observed Sarah. “So little freedom.”

Marsilea said, “It can’t be easy, but girls who realize they have a calling would be terribly unhappy and feel out of place their entire lives if they weren’t able to join the sisterhood.”

“What are the signs that a girl’s been called to serve?” asked Sarah.

Inula said, “Often, an infant has a peculiar birthmark. As a girl, she’ll usually manifest some magical gifts. But the unmistakable sign is that the girl feels the call of the Goddess in her mind. Naturally she has to be examined by priestesses to assure her gifts are genuine. And if they are, the family undergoes a ceremony of giving up the child. That’s the last time they’ll ever see their daughter.”

Sarah shuddered. “I can’t imagine giving up Lizzie forever.”

“Oh, they’re never as young as that,” said Inula. “Not babies. But girls aren’t chosen if the gift hasn’t manifested by adolescence. Once a girl has started bleeding, she’s considered too old.”

Marsilea added, “It’s different from ordinary magic, which can become apparent at any age.”

This discussion of talent brought another thought to the front of Sarah’s mind. “What about dancers, musicians?” she asked. “How are those children identified?”

“The adepts of each craft always have an eye open for raw talent,” Inula said. “Once a year, generally, each guild will hold an open session where parents can bring in their children for examination. Sometimes, though, it’s serendipity—Ralli and Picus, for example, were discovered when they were playing in the market square.”

“Do parents have to pay for the training?” asked Sarah.

This question seemed to take Inula by surprise. “Oh, no!” she said. “The Royal Treasury covers training expenses for all apprentices. Once they’re accepted into a guild, they live in special dormitories. Everything they need is provided by the queen.”

“Do all apprentices reach the adept level?” asked Sarah.

Inula gave a shout of merry laughter. “Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “That’s one important aspect of the apprenticeship process—weeding out anyone who might be unsuitable. Failed apprentices go back to their families. It’s hardly unusual.”

Sarah mulled over all this. On the surface, it sounded like a sensible process: the city’s many craft guilds provided opportunities for gifted children to earn a living, with the concomitant education and training provided gratis by the crown. Further, girls who manifested a genuine religious vocation could make their life in the priestesshood of Aves. Sarah would have admired this system more if children from the Outer Boulevard were eligible.

A chiming of sweet bells interrupted her thoughts. The women’s chatter dropped to a quiet hum, and the voice of a marshal announced that the Winter Hall was ready, and that the evening’s entertainment would begin.

(ii)

Seats for the royal families had been arranged along the edges of the floor. Sarah settled into her chair beside Jareth, noting that a more casual, informal atmosphere had taken hold in the great hall. She was pleased to have the royal family of Vitis sitting beside them; if Jareth hadn’t exactly made friends with Rumex and Agrostis, at least he was not overtly hostile toward them. And the music to which the guests were treated would have put him in a good mood no matter the seating arrangements.

An instrumental number started the program, the musicians still playing up in the gallery. Then a choral group wearing light fern came out onto the floor and performed a lively song. Next came a sextet of young dancers in costumes of elegant orchid. A soprano in a gown of celadon green performed a solo, followed by a trio of stringed instruments. There was a solo played on the harpsichord, then a pair of dancers in medium purple. The performers began to blur together in Sarah’s mind: soloists, duos, trios, quartets, ensembles; singers, dancers, instrumentalists; novices and adepts.

When Sarah feared she would fall asleep if the parade of sound and movement didn’t cease, Ralli and Picus emerged, to a tremendous burst of applause. The noise settled down, and the pair began their routine, an abbreviated version of the one they’d used to win their coveted honor. After a brief rest, they performed a simpler routine that looked to Sarah like something they’d repurposed from their younger years, a crowd-pleaser set to fast, energetic music, the choreography turning the two dancers into one plum-colored whirlwind. Ralli and Picus took a longer break after the second number and then began their third, a slower, more contemplative piece that emphasized their flexibility and ability to hold and sustain movement. If their previous two routines had drawn much enthusiastic stomping and cheering, this one drew gasps and quiet murmurs of pleasure.

Sarah followed each lissome nuance of the choreography, unable to stop herself from scrutinizing the dancers’ feet. Whatever faults the women in the salon had complained about, Sarah could not detect in this performance. Everything Ralli and Picus did was impeccable. The music came to a languid close with the two dancers draped about each other, hands clasped, their faces serene. Sarah shot a quick glance at Petronia, who was blushing. Beside her, Tylas also had turned pink, and Sarah realized the routine had been choreographed especially for them. Maybe this piece of music had some significance for the couple. Sarah pulled her attention back to the dancers, getting to her feet for their standing ovation.

As the applause faded, the musicians in the gallery began to play a spirited waltz. Ralli and Picus, whose energy seemed to know no bounds, began to twirl together in time to the irresistible rhythm. Then Petronia led Tylas down from their dais and joined in, the queen draping the train of her gown over one arm with expert flair. Sarah found herself gobsmacked at the queen’s grace in motion; she would not have expected Petronia could dance so well. The other royal couples began to take the floor one at a time. Jareth put an arm around Sarah’s waist and took one of her hands; she rested the other on his shoulder, and they twirled their way into the growing crowd on the floor. A moment later, Inula and Rumex spun past them, moving with the ease of practice and long familiarity with each other’s bodies. Then the younger members of the royal families came out onto the floor, then the nobility, and soon Jareth and Sarah were one of many spinning pairs.

“This is heaven,” Sarah sighed. Moving felt so good after sitting for so long. The waltz reminded her how much she loved to dance, and Jareth’s arms around her, his eyes smiling into her face, caused her to experience a giddy, transcendent joy.

He murmured, “‘O body swayed to music, O brightening glance—’”

Sarah finished the quote, from one of her favorite poems, “‘How can we know the dancer from the dance?’”

There was a segue into an energetic jig, and Jareth asked, “Shall we show them how it’s done?”

Sarah laughed, “Oh, _yes_ ,” and they hurtled through the crowd, drawing gape-mouthed expressions of astonishment as they went.

(iii)

The festivities continued, hour after hour. If the musicians were tireless, so too were the revelers on the dance floor. In case the guests needed fueling or refreshment—a laughable idea, given the extent of the feast that had been consumed—there were food and drink available in elegant rooms off the great hall. Sarah discovered these en route to the water closet in the women’s salon. While many guests remained on the dance floor, others rested in the rooms surrounding the great hall, lounging in indolent pleasure on chairs and sofas.

Sarah wanted to miss as little of the dancing as possible. Goblins might love creating noise, but their musical abilities were for the most part primitive; who knew when she and Jareth might have the chance again to enjoy such splendid music? Jareth was in his element, partnering Sarah around the floor of the great hall, his boundless skill covering for her occasional small mis-step. Not all the styles were familiar to her, but her goblin mind allowed her to absorb the essence of those alien dances. Sarah savored most of all the slower numbers, when she and Jareth could dance close together, the heat of their bodies palpable even through their layers of heavy clothing.

The energy of the crowd grew more infectious as the evening wore on, reminding Sarah of her late nights as a college student. Many people had set aside their heavy cloaks and trains and ruffs so they could move unencumbered. Members of the dance and choral groups had emerged onto the floor, out of their performance dress and now clad in their own finery. At one end of the room, Petronia lolled in a large chair, laughing, attended by her visibly amorous husband and surrounded by a coterie of her ladies-in-waiting. Between numbers, Sarah chatted with Rumex and Inula, Marsilea and Agrostis. She caught glimpses from time to time of Lenia, radiant with happiness, spinning about the floor in a splash of crimson velvet, never in the arms of the same partner. Even Jareth had succumbed to the potent mix of wine, music, and high spirits: he was as openly happy and garrulous as Sarah had ever seen him.

In the early hours of the morning, couples began to slip away. Sarah was surprised when Tylas and Petronia left the great hall without any fuss or formal recognition; perhaps they felt no need to make a spectacle of their wish for privacy. The crowds on the floor began to thin out, but a good number remained, determined to dance through to the end of the ball. At last the musicians began to play a grand waltz that drew loud cheers, and everyone who wasn’t dancing swarmed out onto the floor. When the music ended on a magnificent coda, a great swell of applause went up, and the musicians came forward to the banister of the gallery to take their bows. The women’s faces were flushed beneath their blue head-dresses, glowing with sweat. Sarah could only imagine how exhausted they must be.

“And there’s our cue,” Jareth murmured. He and Sarah retrieved their long peacock cloaks and exited the great hall, clutching hands. Jareth seemed to have something specific in mind, because he darted across an empty drawing room and opened a door in the paneling.

“Shortcut?” Sarah whispered when they were inside the service corridor.

He kissed her in response, his scent and taste avid with passion. “And privacy,” he murmured.

The darkened, secretive corridors stirred Sarah even more, and the sound of her heels tapping on stone, the whisper of fabric, seemed to her the essence of desire. She paid no mind to their route: up, down, over, across, through one door after another, into an empty dining room, out into a hallway, through another door concealed in a wall. Jareth seemed to have the entire layout of the palace memorized. Sarah didn’t bother to wonder where they were going: it might be back to their quarters; it might be somewhere else altogether. Not knowing was part of the tease.

Jareth led her into an unfamiliar part of the palace—deserted, judging by the cold, the complete absence of sound, and the paucity of light. Candle-lit lanterns were provided only at intervals, where service corridors came together in a junction. Sarah guessed she and Jareth might be in the northernmost wing of the palace. Perhaps because of the silence, even a slight noise came as a surprise. Jareth slowed, and Sarah did likewise, both rising up onto their toes to muffle the sound of their footsteps.

The next thing they heard was an unmistakable groan of passion. The two goblins tiptoed along until they reached the source of the noise: the outline of another service door. Sarah spotted a peephole and paused for a look; someone else had sought out the solitude of this disused part of the palace. A quiet gasp caught in her throat.

She was looking into a bedroom whose furniture mostly was covered with dust sheets. A glass lantern had been placed on the mantelpiece, its fitful, flickering light providing the only illumination for the unfolding tableaux. On the bed lay Lenia, her dark hair tumbling across the dust sheet, a raven cascade in the dim candlelight. The bodice of her gown had been pulled open, her round breasts uncovered and jiggling with faint movements, her nipples two tiny hard pink tips pointing at the ceiling.

Her crimson velvet skirts were hiked up around her hips, her legs splayed apart. Between her thighs knelt a man whose face Sarah could not see, as he was pleasuring Lenia with his mouth. He must have possessed some skill because Lenia arched up and cried out, the fingers of one hand tangled in the man’s hair, the other stroking her own breasts.

“Oh, please!” she gasped.

This spectacle of cunnilingus brought Sarah to full, immediate, throbbing arousal. Jareth tightened his arms around her, cupping her corseted breasts with his hands, his mouth sucking at her bare shoulder. Sarah forced herself to keep her eyes open, watching the scene on the bed and imagining how it would feel when Jareth pleasured her thus. When Lenia cried out again, Sarah came in a gush of wetness. In the room, the young man lifted his head, and Sarah froze: it was the good-looking red-haired dancer, the young Estridian. She didn’t have time to ponder what this meant: he opened the front of his trousers, revealing his turgid cock, and mounted Lenia, who drew back her knees, offering herself. When he thrust into her, she jolted and cried out, causing Sarah to come again. The pair moved together, and Jareth rocked himself against Sarah, in rhythm with the other couple. Lenia was beside herself, thrashing in ecstasy beneath her partner, her hands clutching his backside, urging him on with her voice and the movements of her body. The young man held out admirably long, allowing Lenia to reach the pinnacle of pleasure again and again, before finally giving into his own release and collapsing atop her with a long, shuddering groan.

Then they were laughing, kissing and whispering to each other, their fingers threading together. Jareth disentangled himself from Sarah and tugged her by the hand. She trailed along behind him on wobbly legs, hoping they had not been heard, and hoping even more that they wouldn’t have much further to go.

They passed through the maze of service corridors, heading away from the northern wing of the palace. Jareth slowed; he seemed to be looking for something in particular. To Sarah’s surprise, he liberated one of the glass lanterns from its niche, using the light to examine the stone wall of the corridor. At last he found what he sought: a concealed door, discernible only by its outline. There was no handle, no keyhole. Jareth tapped the bricks until he found the right one, near the base of the wall: the stone depressed inward by an inch, and the door budged open a crack. Jareth worked his fingers into the gap and opened the door wide enough to allow him and Sarah to slip behind it, then pushed the door shut.

Now Sarah knew the reason for the lantern. This corridor lay in Stygian darkness, and it held a musty, disused smell. As Jareth and Sarah made their way along, Sarah brushed the occasional cobweb away from her face. Their breath made visible frosty puffs in the candlelight. _Nobody’s been here for a while_ , Sarah thought, wondering if this passageway led to the hidden temple. A thrilling shock went through her: surely Jareth did not mean for them to engage in sexual congress in the inner sanctum. Perhaps this was the tunnel Inula had mentioned, the one leading to the woodland grove of the priestesses. She rejected that notion: this was one of the palace’s upper levels, and anyway, Jareth was too addicted to creature comforts for sex out in the freezing cold.

He slowed, tapping the dusty bricks, then made a noise of satisfaction when one depressed with a faint grind of stone against stone. Another hidden door opened, this one narrower than the last, moving with stiff jerks on its rusty hinges. Sarah saw the foot of a staircase, stone steps spiraling up into blackness. Another tingling jolt of adrenaline coursed through her bloodstream, and she throbbed anew as she started up the steps, Jareth closing the door behind them, pushing home three rusty bolts that would keep the door fastened.

Holding her skirts, Sarah tore up the steps on quick, light feet. Up, up, up she went, her wide gown brushing the walls of the narrow stairwell. Underfoot, the stairs turned from stone to wood, the steps terminating so abruptly that she almost hit her head on a ceiling. She made a careful exploration with her hands, finding two iron bolts. She gave one a wiggle, then a hard push, the metal making a loud complaint as it jolted free from the wood. She worked the second bolt loose, and a heavy wooden trapdoor lowered down, its steps unfolding to meet the top of the tower stairs. She scrambled up the creaky wooden steps and into a cold, spare room.

Jareth came up behind her, pulling closed the trap and fastening it in place with another pair of bolts. By the flickering candlelight, Sarah found they were at the top of the watchtower she’d spotted when they’d first arrived at the palace. This must be the highest point in Phoebetria. The room’s windows were covered with shutters, but Sarah managed to open one enough to peer out: from here, one must be able to see over the entire countryside during daylight. Now she only could see the outlines of the vast bulk of the palace, the darkness punctuated here and there by the faint, glowing outlines of windows. Overhead, a full moon rode in the sky.

Sarah closed the shutter and turned. Jareth had placed the lantern on the simple, unadorned mantelpiece, whose cold grate looked as though it had not seen a fire in years. The only furniture was a single bed, a table with one chair, and a small chest of drawers, all of it covered with dust; the room was like an army barracks for one person. This might be the plainest, barest room in the palace, but it was one in which two people could tryst not only in privacy but in secrecy.

His mouth curled into a leering smile of exaggerated evil. “Locked up with the Goblin King,” he said, his voice full of mock-menace. “No-one will ever think to look for you here.”

Sarah let out a horrified squeal and pretended to make a dash for the trapdoor. Jareth raced to intercept her, catching her about the waist and pretending to drag her back toward the bed, “wrestling” her onto the bare mattress.

“Nooo,” she wailed, but Jareth pinned her down, producing from somewhere in his frock coat a length of red satin ribbon. He pulled Sarah’s arms up over her head, looped the ribbon about her wrists, and fastened the ends of the ribbon around an upright on the head of the metal bedframe, tugging the ribbon taut, and forcing Sarah’s torso to arch up.

Now his face loomed over hers, laughing and crafty.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” he breathed, tracing the curve of her swelling breasts with his fingertip.

“Please, don’t,” Sarah whimpered. “I’m—I’m to remain pure—for my wedding!”

“Pure?” he mocked. “Pure?” Now his lazy fingers drew up Sarah’s skirts, layer by layer. She pretended to struggle; he pretended to force apart her legs. “Pure?” he chuckled as his fingers explored. “You’re not just wet, my beauty, you’re _saturated_.” With that, one long finger slid up inside her, and Sarah choked out a little cry of outrage.

“Oh, my, someone must have misplaced her maidenhead, because it certainly is nowhere in here,” Jareth teased, his finger moving in and out.

Sarah’s eyes darted frantically back and forth. “Don’t tell,” she pleaded. “Please—don’t tell!”

Jareth withdrew his finger, his face leaning down so that it almost touched Sarah’s. “Only if you’re good,” he promised, kissing her lightly.

“Good?” she whispered, quaking.

His next kiss was deeper, “forcing” her lips apart and probing into her mouth with his tongue. “If you’re very good, and do as you’re told, and keep _quiet_ —” he kissed her again—“we can be respectably married. But if you make so much a peep, everyone at court will learn how you’ve been sullied.”

“M-married?” Sarah stammered. “To a—to a _goblin_?”

“Oh, yes,” he laughed. “To a _goblin_.”

Sarah paused for dramatic effect, then gulped and gave a shaky little nod.

Jareth laughed his evil laugh and kissed his way down Sarah’s jawline, over the jeweled collar, and into her cleavage. Between kisses he taunted her. “What kind of maiden wears a gem that fairly invites the gaze of all men into her breasts?” He lifted the heart-shaped amethyst pendant with a quizzical lift of his curved brows.

Sarah whimpered, and he made a tsking noise. “Since you can’t keep quiet…” Out came another length of scarlet ribbon. He didn’t gag her with it, just covered her mouth and passed it around the back of her head. Satisfied, he pushed aside the pendant and returned to kissing her breasts, nuzzling down into the curves. It was a challenge for Sarah to stay quiet every time he nipped at the skin with his teeth.

His hands went to her thighs, encased in their long silk stockings. Sarah pretended to resist, and he made a noise of caution.

“I’ll _tell_ ,” he threatened. “They’ll _know_.” Sarah stopped fighting. “Now open your legs,” he commanded. Sarah complied. “Wider,” he said. “ _Wider_. Now, bring back your knees. Further back.” He laughed at the sight of her plump, fleshy mound, fully exposed, the black hair slick with wetness. “Oh, what a lovely quim, already glistening. What _have_ you been thinking about, my beauty? Something quite naughty, by the look of things.” With that, he pushed his mouth into Sarah’s wet folds. She writhed with ecstasy, trying with all her might not to shriek as his tongue flicked across her clitoris. His teeth followed, nibbling, then his tongue again, causing Sarah nearly to weep with lust. The memory of how Lenia had looked, writhing in ecstasy, only added to her arousal.

When he’d driven her almost mad with pleasure, Jareth sat back, opening his tights and exposing his prodigious cock. Sarah made her eyes wide with feigned horror. He responded to her expression with another evil chuckle, then lowered himself onto her and pushed inside.

“ _Quiet_ ,” he hissed as he thrust, angling his body in a way that would cause Sarah the greatest pleasure. “Move against me,” he ordered. “Like that. _That_.” Sarah obeyed, pushing up against him, pretending to grimace with revulsion. His breath was hot against her neck as he thrust, faster, then faster. “You’re not a pure maid, so don’t feign innocence,” he taunted. Sarah’s fingers wrapped around the silk ribbons, clutching them tightly, trying to control her responses, trying not to scream, holding her orgasm at bay as long as physically possible.

“Oh, yes,” he gasped. “Oh, _yes_ —now, my beauty— _now_!”

With that, Sarah gave into her release, her cries of passion held strangled in her throat. Jareth’s narrow hips kept thrusting in lovely undulations, and he urged her on with his voice, until his own need became too much to bear, and he shuddered all over. The sensation of his release—hot, wet, spurting with ferocity inside her—prompted Sarah to an orgasm that seemed to wrack through her viscera. She felt a thick, glutinous wetness gush out of her, enveloping Jareth’s cock and oozing down the backs of her thighs, into the fabric of her petticoat. Then Jareth collapsed atop her, gasping, his body heaving. Sarah’s legs relaxed, falling apart on either side of him. She slipped her hands out of the loops of red ribbon, caressing his naked backside.

For a long while, they just lay like that, enjoying each other’s breath. Then Sarah began laughing.

“Did I play the outraged damsel well?” she teased, toying with his hair.

He groaned an affirmative. “It’s a role you were born to play.”

“And you, my glorious Goblin King, were born to play the part of the devilish seducer.” Jareth worked his way up her body and kissed her. Sarah tasted her salty musk in his mouth, mingled with the sweet taste of wine and the bitter, metallic tang of adrenaline—a heady, potent mix—sex and danger.

After a while Sarah murmured, “How long did it take you to find the entrance to the tower?”

“I’ve been looking since we arrived,” he admitted.

“Did you think it would be the perfect place to stage a seduction?”

He nuzzled into her neck. “So forbidding and mysterious. The dark, abandoned tower…”

“…where the Goblin King can spirit away and ravish the fair damsel,” Sarah finished. Jareth’s hands were on her ribs, then her waist, still encased in the confines of the unyielding corset. She could sense his frustration through the stays and the layers of silk and damask.

“I must confess, this… _contraption_ is enough to drive one mad,” he said.

“That’s the whole point,” Sarah teased. “It’s the temptation, putting everything on display you can never have.” She ran her fingertip down his spine. “Didn’t you notice all the men gazing at me? _Wanting_ me?” Her finger went to his lips. “But never able to have me?”

He made a frustrated, inarticulate noise, and Sarah laughed.

“Didn’t it excite you,” she whispered, “knowing all those men wanted to fuck me?”

“Oh, Sarah,” he groaned.

Sarah pushed him onto his back. Her hands closed over the red ribbons, and she used them to secure Jareth to the bedframe, just as he’d done to her. His cock jutted up from his narrow hips, still glistening from their previous lovemaking, and his eyes were avid with lust.

Sarah straddled his chest, keeping her knees far enough apart for their bodies not to touch. She hiked up her skirts, keeping them out of the way with one hand, then used the other hand to pleasure herself.

“Oh,” she moaned, rocking into her hand. “Oh, God, I’m so horny, it’s unbearable.” Jareth’s mouth fell open, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. “I wish Jareth would come and fuck me,” she whispered. She continued masturbating until she climaxed, arching her back and crying out Jareth’s name.

“Sarah,” he moaned, “for the love of all the stars…”

“Is there something you _desire_?” she taunted.

“Oh, yes, Sarah, _yes_.”

“And who is the most beautiful, most desirable woman in all the six kingdoms?”

“Sarah, Queen of the Goblins.”

“Who has the longest, loveliest legs?” Sarah went on.

“Sarah, Queen of the Goblins.”

“And who has the most deliciously beautiful breasts, the most perfect pink nipples?”

“Sarah, Queen of the Goblins.”

“And who has the wettest, most _irresistible_ quim?”

“Sarah, Queen of the Goblins,” he moaned.

“And the most glorious hair?”

“Sarah, Queen of the Goblins.”

“And who is more skilled at the womanly arts than even the most celebrated courtesan?”

“Sarah, Queen of the Goblins—a woman with no equal.”

“And has Jareth been _wicked_?”

“Oh, yes, Jareth has been a terribly naughty goblin.”

“Well, then, make amends for it.” Sarah inched forward, lowering herself to Jareth’s face. “Serve me,” she ordered.

He obeyed with alacrity, his tongue flicking up, teasing her clitoris and lapping at the mouth of her quim.

“That’s better,” Sarah sighed, closing her eyes, giving into the release that caused her body to wrack with shudders. When it seemed she could bear no more, she worked her way back down, straddling Jareth’s hips, and drawing him up inside her.

“Oh, my stallion,” she groaned. She moved in fluid gyrations, his hips rocking up to meet hers. “Oh, yes, _yes_.” Faster they went, faster, faster, until Sarah let out an unrestrained shriek of ecstasy, coming so hard she could barely keep Jareth beneath her, and he kept thrusting up into her until he reached the limit of his prowess and spurted into her again, shouting out her name: a mantra of sheer, voluptuous abandon.

(iv)

They must have fallen asleep, because when Sarah opened her eyes, the room’s darkness had lightened from pitch black to charcoal gray. The candle in the lantern had burned down to a little stub. Sarah’s goblin senses told her that dawn was about an hour away—the sun would rise late on this day, the shortest of the year. Now that the rush of adrenaline and pheromones had worn off, the bitter cold of the room was manifest, and Sarah’s breath felt like ice in her lungs. But some sensation other than mere cold had awakened her: the uncanny feeling of being watched. Mortified that someone had followed her and Jareth, Sarah lifted her head. She thought she saw, standing near one of the windows, a thin, dark shade.

“Who’s there?” Sarah demanded in a low voice. She blinked, and the shadow melted away. She gave Jareth, who sprawled supine beneath her, a little shake.

“We need to get out of here,” she whispered. She was beginning to shiver from the cold. “It’s almost morning. And it’s _freezing_. Plus, I don’t think we’re completely alone up here.”

He made an inarticulate noise of inquiry.

“I think it was a ghost,” said Sarah, climbing off the bed, looking around, to see if the specter might be hiding in a corner. “Maybe the tower’s haunted. Maybe that’s why nobody comes up here.”

She and Jareth hastily pulled themselves together, adjusting britches and skirts, donning the peacock cloaks over their finery. Sarah took the lantern from the mantelpiece and scanned the small room, making a close visual examination of everything to assure that no trace of themselves would be left behind. Because there was no room for anything but skin beneath her corset, Sarah had pinned her amulet to the inside of her overskirt, up near the waistline of her gown, so that she could feel for its presence with a light touch that would not draw attention. She made sure it was still there—the one thing she could not afford to mislay—before Jareth opened the trapdoor.

“I’ll miss this place,” she said, making a little erotic noise in her throat.

Jareth reached over to kiss her, and they clambered with caution down the wooden steps. “I’ve half a mind to keep you tied up in there, since you enjoy it so much.”

“Wouldn’t you be worried about the ghost having its wicked way with me?” Sarah taunted. “I’m sure he gets lonely, all by himself.”

“No doubt he’s pining away from lust, even as we speak.”

“That would make you jealous, wouldn’t it? Even a ghost wanting me.”

“You could make a dead man come.” Jareth pushed the trapdoor back into place and fastened the two bolts. Banter aside, Sarah was glad to be leaving the tower room behind.

They crept down the rickety steps, placing their weight very lightly until they were back onto solid stone. A thought occurred to Sarah as they made their way down the spiraling steps into the well of utter blackness.

“Where’d you get those ribbons?” she whispered, although they were the only people around, and the walls here were as thick as any fortress.

“Nicked them from the dressmakers,” he said, and Sarah stifled a burst of raucous laughter.

(v)

Jareth re-traced their steps from the tower to the hidden corridor, back into the service corridor. He even paused to return the lantern to its niche. From there they navigated the maze of halls, stairways, and doors, until—somewhat to Sarah’s amazement—they emerged into a small, cold salon in the southwest wing. From there they only need to go up a flight of stairs to the corridor where the entrance to the Falcon Wing was located.

“Home at last,” Sarah said through her chattering teeth.

Inside their room, Jareth added kindling to the glowing embers that had been banked for the night, building up the fire in the bedroom and the bathroom. Sarah drew back the bedding. She moved to the dressing table, where she removed her rings and earrings and unpinned the multitude of combs and clips from her hair. She unpinned her amulet from beneath the overskirt and placed it on the table.

Jareth stepped behind her to unfasten the choker, and Sarah let out a sigh of relief as the thick collar came away. She turned, helping Jareth remove his outer layer of clothes.

“Unhook me,” she said, gesturing over her shoulder. Jareth undid the hooks of the bodice one by one. Sarah slid her arms out of the sleeves, and the heavy gown slithered down over her petticoats, landing on the carpet in a pool of purple and teal damask. Sarah stepped out of her Louis heels, amused to realize she’d kept them on her feet the entire time she and Jareth were in the tower. Off came one petticoat, then the second, then the panniers. Without Sarah’s realizing it, the simple act of undressing had become the slow, deliberate movements of a striptease.

He turned her around to face him, so that he could get a better look at the corset. Mesmerized, her ran his hands over the smooth satin, the way the fabric curved so dramatically from hip to waist to bosom. He tried to knead her breasts through the corset, but the stays frustrated him.

“Come here.” Sarah led him by the hand over to the bedside and turned her back to him. “Undo the laces.”

He complied, and right away, her breasts sprang free with an almost comical effect. Sarah burst out laughing, and Jareth slid his hands around, clearly pleased to be able to caress her fully. He began to tweak her nipples, and Sarah groaned at the friction created by his lightly callused thumbs. He didn’t rush, though he was pressed up close to her, and Sarah could feel the stiffness of his cock through the thin silk of her shift. The thumbs went back and forth, very gently, teasing. Sarah’s body stirred to arousal all over again, but Jareth did nothing else to hasten her release, just kept his attention focused on her nipples, until Sarah was half-mad from longing.

With easy, languid movements, he drew up her shift and slipped one hand between her thighs. Two fingers parted her folds, and a third began to tease her clitoris in light, quick strokes. His left arm still encircled her breasts, his thumb tweaking the right nipple. Sarah moaned, and his mouth fastened onto her neck, hot and sucking. Then he began to rub his rigid erection against the curve of her buttocks, slowly, taunting her with erotic stimulation. The exquisite torture continued until Sarah finally shuddered in climax, her wetness gushing into Jareth’s hand.

He pushed her forward then, so that she leaned over the high bed, taking her from behind. Sarah cried out: they normally didn’t make love in this position, though she enjoyed the way it felt, the sensation of pressure in different places. Jareth set up a steady thrusting, one fingertip grazing her clitoris, one thumb on her nipple, in time with the rhythm of their bodies. Sarah beat the coverlet with her fists; she began to come riotously, again and again, Jareth not letting up until she was utterly spent, at which point he gave in to the urgency of his own agonizingly delayed release. By then, Sarah’s stockings were soaked almost all the way down to her feet.

Jareth drew away from her with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now, where was I?” he murmured. “Oh, yes.” He finished unlacing her corset, working the cords out of the grommets with lazy slowness until the garment fell away, slipping down to Sarah’s feet. He eased the shift over her head. The ribbons that held up Sarah’s stockings were so wet she could barely untie them, which caused Jareth to smirk.

“And who gets me this way, hmm?” she inquired, leaning in for another kiss. He finished peeling off his own clothes, and they went into the bathroom to wash. By now, the room had warmed up, though the pink marble was still icy underfoot, and Sarah hastened into the tepid water. Jareth joined her, and they tenderly washed each other, rinsing off the layers of dried sex and sweat. They toweled dry and then slipped nude into their bed, Jareth pulling the draperies around them. The sheets were freezing, but as they spooned together, their body heat began to generate warmth. Sarah’s last conscious recollection, before sweet exhaustion took her into slumber, was the quiet sound of her maids, picking up the soiled finery.

(vi)

A deeply unpleasant sensation brought Sarah to consciousness: the feeling of pressure beneath her ribs. She groaned, trying to open eyes whose lids seemed gummed together. After some effort, she managed to get one open a bare slit, enough to ascertain the hour: mid-afternoon. The bed draperies, shutters, and curtains were all still drawn, but daylight intruded nevertheless. Jareth was nowhere to be seen. When Sarah swallowed, her throat protested. She turned onto her back, aware that there was no part of her body that didn’t hurt. She would have liked to stay in bed forever, but her bladder had other ideas. She sat, waiting until the room stopped spinning before crawling out of the bed and making her unsteady way to the bathroom.

After relieving herself, she slipped into the tub of clean water that sat ready, still tepid; it had been drawn several hours earlier. She ran the tap for more hot water. While she washed, Sarah ran her hands over her ribs, breasts, and waist, which still bore deep red indentations from the stays of her corset. _Never wearing that damned thing again_ , she thought, cursing Lenia for having talked her into tight-lacing in the first place.

After a long soak, Sarah dried herself, dismayed to see that an angry band of red encircled her neck where the choker had been. _And that was a good idea, why?_ Her feet in particular were killing her from the long hours dancing and running around the palace in high heels. Her quim felt tender from repeated penetration, her over-stimulated clitoris sensitive to the touch, but that, at least, Sarah didn’t mind.

She wrapped herself in one of the large towels and rang for Wulfrun and Elfswhit. Since she had nowhere special to be, Sarah chose one of her own gowns and her most lightly-boned corset to wear beneath it. In the dining room, she found that a buffet had been set out, but there were no servants in evidence; the staff must be taking things easily for the day. A pot of herbal tea still retained warmth, and Sarah drank a couple of cups sweetened with honey in between nibbles of bread, the only thing for which she had any appetite. She wasn’t hung over—she hadn’t been able to drink enough wine for that—but she could feel how the corset had shifted her internal organs, and something was pressing uncomfortably against her stomach, causing the sick-making queasiness. And she’d been wearing the thing for well over twelve hours: eating, drinking, dancing, running around the palace, to say nothing of her and Jareth’s vigorous fucking.

In the unkind light of day, Sarah felt, if not exactly ashamed, at least chagrined that they hadn’t come back to their own rooms. Had she really needed to have Jareth chase her around like that to be turned on? She told herself they were married and in love, and as consenting adults they were entitled to whatever form of sexual play they wanted, but the previous night’s pleasures still struck her as nothing more than the infantile self-indulgence of two spoiled, overgrown children. She thought again of the vast new wardrobe she’d purchased—why on earth had she done that? She might never wear any of those clothes again, a colossal waste of money and time.

Finishing her tea, Sarah realized with another unwelcome stab of reality that today was the Winter Solstice—in her own world, the twenty-first of December—and therefore, her birthday. She was now twenty-three years old. Twenty-three, married, and with a child. She’d never even finished her college degree. True, the passage of time meant little to Sarah now that she was part goblin and would live for centuries, but she couldn’t help a sense of dismay that she’d squandered her intelligence and potential to run away to fairy-land.

She wondered what her family and friends were doing now, how they were faring. In four days or so, it would be Christmas, and for the first time since her marriage, Sarah thought of how painful the holiday would be for Robert for the rest of his life. Knowing him, he would be worried sick about her, terrified that she’d been kidnapped by a cult, raped, murdered; that she even now might be held against her will and suffering. Sarah had written him a letter before she’d left the human world for good, but she suspected he wouldn’t believe a word of it.

_If only there was some way to let him know I’m all right_ , Sarah lamented. Even Jareth could only travel between worlds in the form of an owl; he could not appear as himself unless he were directly summoned by a wish. That kind of transformation required powerful magical ability, and great skill was required to travel across the Void without being irretrievably lost. By the time Sarah mastered such magic, Robert might well be centuries in his grave.

Sarah wondered, too, about her high school and college friends, wondered what they were doing, and if they ever thought of her, the girl who had vanished into thin air. She sat gazing about the inside of the dining room, but in her mind’s eye, she saw the interior of Riley Hall, her college dormitory, a place Sarah had loved more than any other, save her childhood home. She didn’t wish herself back there, but she couldn’t ward off the realization that she would never see it again. Everything in her past life was lost to her. Nothing came without price, and the price of Sarah’s love for Jareth was that she could not exist in both worlds. She knew if given a choice, she would make the same decision all over again, gladly, but that did not negate the grief she now felt.

She realized she was crying, tears streaming down her face, and she dropped her aching head into her hands. Too late she heard quick, light footsteps in the hallway and had no way to clean her face before Lenia whirled into the dining room on a cloud of freesia.

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “I’m so sorry—if I’m intruding—”

“No, no.” Sarah grabbed a napkin and used it to mop away the tears. “Please.” She felt very much in need of company.

Lenia lowered herself into a chair across from Sarah. Unlike Sarah, the previous night’s sexual activity seemed to have left her energized and sparkling with happiness. Gaiety infused her every movement. There was high color in her cheeks, and a lively light in her eyes. She wore another of those lovely embroidered gowns, a fur-trimmed cape about her shoulders.

Lenia waited until Sarah had composed herself before asking, “Do you mind if I ask what the matter is? Are you ill?”

“No, I’m just… I miss my family.” The words tumbled out before Sarah could stop them. She added, “They… you know, they don’t approve of my marriage to Jareth. So I can’t see them any more.” That was true enough.

“I’m so sorry. That must be so difficult.”

“If I could only… I don’t know, communicate with them. Or at least see how they’re doing. I know they must be worried about me.”

Lenia did not ask which kingdom Sarah’s family lived in; she may well have been shrewd enough to guess Sarah was human—and almost certainly her mother or grandmother had discerned the truth. Instead, she asked, “Can’t you scry?”

“I’ve tried,” Sarah admitted. “It’s one aspect of magic I have difficulty with.”

Drumming her fingertips on the table top, Lenia asked, “Have you tried using water?”

“No.” Sarah refrained from mentioning her seeing-mirror, knowing this might lead the conversation into dangerous territory. Above all, she wanted to avoid talking about the Living Sands; Jareth would not want to share this source of magical power with the Clade Tinamotus.

“Water is a good aid to scrying,” said Lenia. “Especially tidal pools.” She asked Sarah, “Why don’t you and King Jareth come with me and Mother tomorrow? We’re going to the coast so she can perform a weather-working spell. It’s not even a half-day’s ride from here. We’re bringing a picnic with us. She has to cast the spell at low tide, and there’ll be plenty of tidal pools.”

Sarah frowned. “What about the Pax Deorum? How can she cast a spell while that’s in effect?”

Lenia lowered her voice. “In the Great Temple, there’s a massive hourglass,” she whispered. “It takes twenty-eight days for the sand to flow through. When the Pax Deorum was set, the High Priestess used the hourglass to put the spell into motion. But the sand in the hourglass comes from the beach at the coast—even the glass itself was made from the sand. At high and low tide, it’s the one place in the kingdom where the Pax Deorum doesn’t have any effect, so it’s possible still to work magic there.”

“Does anybody else know this?” Sarah murmured.

“Me, Mother, Grandmother, and Queen Petronia. And the High Priestess, of course. The queen wants a weather forecast—the ice festival is coming up, and after the coronation festivities, she wants to travel around the countryside a bit. As far as anyone knows, we’re just going for a ride to the coast.”

The thought of a long ride in the fresh air, seeing the ocean, deeply appealed to Sarah. She asked, “Will the queen mind if Jareth and I know about the weather-working spell?”

Lenia grinned. “Mother won’t care. I don’t imagine Petronia would, either. Just don’t say anything about it. I’m your official hostess for the coronation, so it’s not at all odd for you to be coming with us. Bring your daughter, too.”

At this mention of Lizzie, Sarah felt that she had not seen her daughter in ages, and her arms ached for the feel of her baby’s sturdy little body.

“We’ll go,” Sarah decided. “It’s so lovely of you to invite us on your picnic.”

Lenia grinned. “Oh, and I’m supposed to invite you to dinner tonight.”

Sarah groaned, “Not more food!”

“No, no, it’s going to be a light supper. All the monarchs are invited, and their children. Queen Petronia said she has a special surprise.”

The last thing Sarah felt like was yet another formal occasion, but she nodded and said, “Of course we’ll come,” hoping that Jareth would not raise any objections.

(vii)

By the time she had to dress for dinner, the red indentations in Sarah’s ribs had almost faded away, although traces of the rash on her neck remained. Her internal organs seemed to have returned to their habitual places, and Sarah’s appetite returned with them. Lenia had assured her that this was an informal occasion, but Sarah didn’t see how any meal with Petronia could be considered casual, so she took care to dress well. She’d brought with her a lovely gown of white taffeta that Petronia’s seamstresses had made over: Sarah chose it because of its high, almost Victorian collar and simple cut. Cloth of silver had been added to line the sleeves and trim the hemline; the collar and the cuffs had been embroidered with scarlet thread. To pick up the red accents, she added a pair of ruby earrings. Her amulet was once again safely ensconced beneath her corset, and the high collar of the gown concealed the rash on her neck.

Jareth also wore white, a color Sarah loved to see on him, with a doublet embroidered in silver thread. His boots were black, and he also sported a new cloak: silver-embroidered white damask, with a stunning red lining.

They’d spent most of the afternoon playing with Lizzie and watching her cavort with the other goblins, and now Sarah handed her daughter over to the maids with some reluctance. At the appointed hour, Lenia appeared to collect them, still glowing with happiness.

On this night, Jareth and Sarah’s invitation allowed them further into the Eagle Suite, into a formal dining room. A fire blazed, and numerous candles provided a soft, golden light. The table was very long, with seating enough for all the royal families. The youngest children were not present, but those who were adolescent or older had been included, and Sarah smiled at one of the princesses from Eutheria, who sat preening with evident self-importance.

Petronia sat at one end of the table, Tylas at the other. Jareth and Sarah were seated in the middle, across from each other, with Inula and Rumex on one side, Marsilea and Agrostis on the other. Lenia had been seated down near Tylas, and it didn’t escape Sarah that Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama also had been included at this dinner.

Petronia wore a deep blue gown with an empire waist, a style Sarah had not observed on other women in Aves. No formal announcement had been made about the queen’s condition, but Petronia could not be advertising it more obviously. Tylas had a look of smug satisfaction, and no wonder: as his wife’s belly expanded, his family’s fortunes grew with it. Sitting to the immediate right of Tylas was a youth who appeared to be his kinsman, seventeen or eighteen. The boy’s curly hair, pale gray eyes, and sensuous features marked him as a member of the Clade Tinamotus—the king’s young cousin, perhaps. Sarah remembered seeing him dance with some skill at the ball after the coronation.

The meal was pleasant; wine flowed liberally, assuring a relaxed atmosphere and easy conversation. Sarah recognized many dishes, which she judged had not been touched, from the coronation feast. From the corner of her right eye, she observed Petronia turning up her nose at much of the food and making periodic loud complaints about the way everything tasted “bitter and metallic.” Sarah didn’t miss the knowing looks that ricocheted around the table.

A sweet course followed the meal, accompanied by small glasses of the peach brandy that Jareth and Sarah had brought as gifts. Jareth’s eyebrows went up in an amused query: was Petronia using this blatant gesture to curry his favor? Down at the end of the table, the queen was enjoying her dessert, complimenting the brandy, and proclaiming it the only beverage that didn’t taste “off.”

As if on some unspoken cue, the conversation quieted to a murmur when the sweet course was taken away, and as the servants vanished into the paneling, three dozen pairs of eyes turned to the queen, the air of expectation swelling like a balloon. Everyone assumed that Petronia had invited them to this meal for a specific reason.

The queen took to her feet. She had a plump figure, but still, the slight extrusion beneath the skirt of her gown was caused by something besides body fat. Sarah hazarded a guess that Petronia was about two months along. She realized she was holding her breath, waiting for the queen to make her happy announcement.

“It’s an honor to have you all here tonight, to share in our celebration,” Petronia began. “The Seven Kingdoms haven’t come together for centuries. This is an important occasion, not just for Aves, but for all of us. We’re pleased to see old friendships rekindled and new alliances forged.” The queen paused for a moment to let this sink in, and Sarah discerned a sudden, tense shift in the atmosphere. What promises, she wondered, would Petronia extract from guests who were in essence her hostages for a month?

“My counselors and I have been in negotiations with our brother king, Colobrid, concerning his two younger children.” Her counselors, Sarah guessed, consisted of Gannet and Jacama. “As you know, his son and heir, Ramphoreon, is already married.” The multitude of eyes now turned their focus down the length of the table to the young man with green and purple tattoos on his cheeks, his white-blond hair cropped very short. “Likewise, Colobrid’s elder daughter, Tantilla, is also wed.” The girl in question sat across from her brother, almost his female clone, her flaxen hair cut short and spiky, showing off the array of gemmed studs that pierced through the outer edges of her ears.

Petronia went on, “The younger princess of Varan, Abronia, is still unwedded. Tonight, it’s our pleasure to announce an alliance between the royal families of Aves and Varan. This pact will be sealed with the marriage of Princess Abronia to our good husband’s second cousin, Winsel of the Clade Tinamotus.”

A murmur of approval, mingled with surprise, went through the guests, more glances shooting like pinballs across the table. This announcement confirmed, in Sarah’s mind, the queen’s condition. She suspected the King of Varan would not have allowed his daughter to marry into the Clade Tinamotus had he not been assured of that family’s ascension to power.

The young man seated to the right of Tylas stood up and circled the table to where the young princess sat. She stood, taking his arm, and they went to Petronia, where they knelt to receive her blessing. The queen presented Winsel with a golden bracelet, which he kissed and slipped onto the left wrist of Princess Abronia. That gesture appeared to seal their betrothal. Everyone applauded, and the young couple returned to their seats, flushed and stealing shy glances at each other. Sarah wondered if the poor kids had even known about the plans for their engagement, though they did not seem displeased by it.

Petronia gazed about the table with her beatific smile. “King Colobrid and Queen Galvodea also have an unmarried son, the Prince Cerastis.” Attention shifted to the younger of the two princes of Varan, a fair-haired teenage boy who lacked the cheek tattoos of his father and brother. His gray eyes held a startled expression at finding himself the object of scrutiny. “As a gesture of good faith, Colobrid and Galvodea have agreed that Cerastis should marry into the royal family of Aves and live here among us.”

_Of course_ , Sarah thought. Winsel would be going to live in Varan with his bride, so Petronia would want one of Colobrid’s children living in Aves—to maintain the balance of power between the two kingdoms.

“So it pleases us that Prince Cerastis will marry our own lovely niece, Aellenia.”

Sarah’s head snapped around to stare at her friend. Lenia’s face was frozen into an expression of gape-mouthed shock. Sarah didn’t miss the angry elbow that Lady Jacama jabbed into her daughter’s side. Lenia jolted, rising to her feet, a multitude of emotions warring for control of her face, and made her dutiful way to the stunned young prince of Varan. The couple went to Petronia for her blessing, and Prince Cerastis presented Lenia with a bracelet of gold.

_Holy shit!_ Sarah thought. From the excited murmurs and startled expressions around her, she guessed that while the first engagement had been expected, this one had taken the company unawares. Sarah thought of last night, Lenia in the passionate embrace of the red-haired Estridian dancer, and she understood why the light in her friend’s eyes was utterly extinguished, her face a mask of cold, sepulchral stone.

**To be continued…**


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-13-17.

_Seven_

The following morning dawned clear and, if not quite mild, less frigid than the previous fortnight had been. The riding party gathered outside the city walls. Jareth and Sarah had left the city via the South Gate Overpass, the bridge that permitted the denizens of the palace and their high-ranking guests to come and go without having to mingle with their social inferiors. A few young stable hands waited outside the gate with horses, among the finest Sarah had ever seen.

Lady Jacama was in high spirits, her cheeks full of color, her eyes like diamonds, hard and brilliant. She rode a bay mare, which carried a pair of leather saddlebags. Sarah had been given a lovely palomino mare, and Jareth a pale gray gelding. Lenia, whose demeanor of studied gaiety was at odds with the dark circles beneath her eyes, rode a rich chestnut mare. A pair of palace guards led the party, and a small group of serving boys brought up the rear, their ponies drawing the cart bearing the picnic lunch.

Sarah took in the countryside with curious eyes, but there wasn’t much to see. The elevation of the terrain, which consisted of rolling fields full of tall, dried grass, dropped in gradual degrees as they rode. Here and there, flocks of squawking water birds, their metallic plumage flashing in the sunlight, suggested ponds and marshy areas. An occasional tree punctuated the featureless brown landscape, its naked limbs thrust up against the pale blue sky. Once or twice, the roofs of a farmstead were visible in the far distance.

Sarah loved to ride, and the palomino beneath her was strong and sure-footed. She felt stylish in her new riding clothes: a pair of blousy leggings made of cashmere wool and lined with silk, a warm tunic and cape, gleaming boots, and a smart hat with a long, curling feather in the brim. The entire outfit was in deep burgundy with black accents. Beside her, Jareth wore his own clothes: gray and white, black cloak and boots. He held the reins of his horse loosely in his left hand, Lizzie cradled in his right arm. He kept glancing at Sarah and smiling, and she grinned back in unspoken pleasure at being away from the city.

Lady Jacama rode beside Lenia, and their conversation centered, not surprisingly, around Lenia’s upcoming nuptials. Petronia had announced that the double wedding, sealing the treaty with Varan, would take place on the last day of the coronation festivities, before the Pax Deorum was lifted. Sarah wondered how Lenia felt about that, about knowing only two weeks of freedom remained to her. As a wedding gift to the couple, Petronia was giving Lenia and Prince Cerastis a fine house in the Queen’s Yards, and much of Jacama’s chatter concerned plans for furnishing and decorating the couple’s new home. Lenia’s trousseau would include household linens, furniture, gold and silver plate, a vast new wardrobe, and horses from the queen’s stables. Everyone, it seemed, harbored more enthusiasm for this wedding than the bride herself.

A well-maintained road made riding easy, and by mid-morning, the party had reached a rise of land from which the ocean was visible, a thin gray ribbon on the horizon. The breeze that blew toward them carried the scent of salt. The party descended the hill, and the ocean vanished from sight, but a couple of miles later, it came into view again at the top of another rise, the ribbon now appearing bigger and wider, as much green as gray, and the salt wind blew its intoxicating fragrance more strongly.

The remainder of the journey continued like that, with the ocean getting closer by progressive stages. The cries of sea birds had replaced the calls of marsh birds, and even before the party reached the beach, the sound of waves crashing and turning upon sand, the music of restless eternity, could be heard.

Lady Jacama urged her mare forward, and the others followed; the lads with the wagon had fallen far behind. The road ended in a small roundabout of loose gravel. From there, a walkway constructed of wooden planks led down to the sand. To the left sat a sheltered wooden structure with hitching posts, a pump, and water troughs. The guards took charge of the party’s horses, leading them over to this mini-stable. To the right of the roundabout sat another shelter, this one intended for the use of people: there were wooden tables and benches, and in the distance, beyond a sand dune, rose the roof of an outhouse.

The riders dismounted and availed themselves of the facilities before thumping down the walkway to the beach. As soon as she set foot onto the sand, Sarah felt the change in the atmosphere: it was like driving through mountains and having her ears pop when she reached a lower elevation. All of a sudden, she could hear again.

With a squeal of pleasure, Lizzie floated up from Jareth’s arms, levitating in mid-air. Lenia burst out laughing at the sight, the first expression of true happiness to cross her face all morning.

Sarah strolled across the sand, soft and white and fine as powder beneath her feet. She closed her eyes, focusing her magic inward, to the solitary ovum that had been released the night before. With little effort, she caused the unfertilized egg to dissolve into nothingness. She and Jareth had refrained from making love the previous night, knowing it might result in conception, but now there would be no need to abstain. Sarah had been employing this technique since Lizzie’s birth. This trip to the coast had been well-timed; if she hadn’t been able to escape the Pax Deorum long enough to dissolve the egg, sex would have been off-limits for several more days.

She wanted another child, one day, but not right now. She and Jareth had barely been married before Lizzie was born; Sarah felt like she was still adjusting to motherhood, and she had no wish to add another baby so soon. She was going to live a long life, so there was no rush.

She had a more selfish reason for delaying their second child. Jareth had told her they could have daughters by the dozen if they wished, but once they had a son, there would be no more children. They could not run the risk of having another son: goblins were so selfish and avaricious that no younger son would be able to tolerate watching his older brother become king. Back in the distant haze of goblin history, there had been a king whose mate bore two sons, and not surprisingly, one had slain the other. Jareth had no wish to see any of his children commit fratricide. He would have one son, one heir, and no others.

Sarah let out a quiet sigh of relief, then reached over and took Jareth’s hand with a smile and a lift of her brows. He smiled back, and they ambled toward the water, which folded and unfolded in foamy waves across the shiny wet sand. Sarah gazed out across the water, an undulating mass of blue and gray and green, stretching as far as the eye could see. With a shudder, she wondered how far one would have to sail before reaching the fabled point of no return.

A few feet back from the waterline, Lenia and her mother were building a fire and setting up a glass contraption. Curious, Sarah wandered over for a better look. The device looked like one of the graduated cylinders Sarah remembered from chemistry classes: a tall glass tube with markings etched along its length. The cylinder had been propped upright in an ingenious metal tripod whose legs straddled the fire that Lenia was kindling from driftwood.

From one of her saddlebags, Lady Jacama produced a collection of herbs, which had been pre-measured into small drawstring linen bags. One by one, she emptied the contents of each bag into the cylinder. A pungent fragrance rose up. Lady Jacama added a pinch of something white, perhaps salt, and murmured a quiet incantation. To the fire Lenia was adding a collection of different herbs: two, three, four small bags, whose contents caused the fire to blaze crimson. When the blaze was crackling, she drew a stick from the fire, red flame dancing at its tip, and focused her gaze on the cylinder. Sarah’s goblin-senses could feel the tide ebbing away, and at the precise moment it reached its lowest point, Lenia dropped her small torch, branch and all, into the cylinder. The dried plants caught alight, and a gorgeous blue flame burst up out of the glass tube.

“Ooh, that’s beautiful!” exclaimed Sarah, enchanted by the contrast in the colors.

Lady Jacama beamed at her daughter. “Well-done,” she praised. “We’ll make a weather-worker out of you yet.”

Sarah expected that the fire would burn out right away, but the blue flame continued to leap and dance.

“What do you do now?” she asked.

“Wait,” said Lady Jacama.

Lenia said, “You need an hour to work a weather forecast. We have to wait until the tide turns to take a reading.”

“How does that tube work?” asked Sarah.

“If there’s a storm in the forecast, the markings on the tube indicate how far away it is,” said Lenia. “The glass will turn purple. The higher up the color goes, the closer the storm is. And the deeper the color, the worse the storm will be.” She pointed out the marks etched in the glass. “Each one of those marks is a day. The spell can forecast a storm as far as twenty-eight days away. So if the glass turns lavender, and the color goes halfway up, we’ll know there’s a storm coming in two weeks, but that it won’t be very severe.”

Sarah nodded. “That’s clever. It must be a useful thing in Aves, where the winters are so harsh.”

Lady Jacama said, “Yes, we usually have at least a dozen major storms each winter, to say nothing of all the smaller ones. We’ve hardly had any snow this year, which is odd for us.” She laughed under her breath. “Although it made preparing for the coronation much easier.”

Lenia smiled at Sarah. “Would you like to take a walk while we wait? I think the boys with the food should be here before long.”

Sarah asked Jareth, “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he responded, droll and gracious at the same time. “Lizzie and I can amuse ourselves.”

Jareth set out at a leisurely pace along the beach, Lizzie bobbing in the air over his head. Lenia gestured Sarah in the other direction, toward a tumble of rocks that extended from the sea grass, through the sand dunes, and down onto the beach. They clambered in companionable silence over the boulders. Sarah observed the stones were lighter up near the dunes, but darker down near the water, where years of tides had stained the rocks. She took care with her footing: here and there, patches of moss or seaweed created a slick surface.

As Lenia had promised, many of the rocks contained tidal pools, the water alive with the movement of tiny sea creatures. The two climbed up a bit higher, until Lenia found a pool that she judged suitable. A large boulder overshadowed the water, so that the sunlight would not interfere with Sarah’s scrying, and the stone’s flat surface would provide somewhere for Sarah to sit. This pool housed less aquatic wildlife, and the water was still.

“This is perfect,” Lenia pronounced. “You have until the tide starts turning. Once the water really starts coming back into the bay, the Pax Deorum will take effect again.” She shaded her face with her hand, squinting at the sun. “About an hour, maybe a little less.”

“That should be enough,” Sarah said.

“I’ll be up there,” Lenia said, gesturing toward the dunes. She would respect Sarah’s need for privacy, and in all likelihood, she wanted some for herself.

“Thank you so much,” Sarah responded. She waited until the sound of Lenia’s footsteps retreated and sat cross-legged on the rock. Taking a deep breath to center herself, she focused on the sounds she could hear: the gulls, the wind, the faint sounds of tiny waves lapping the sand. She let everything flow through her: time itself, the energy of the ocean, her own power. She opened her eyes and regarded the pool of salt water, rendered green by the algae on the rocks, until it became the focus of her entire field of vision. Exhaling a long, easy sigh, she commanded, “ _Reveal_.”

The water glimmered, and in its glassy surface, Sarah could see what appeared to be a table in a restaurant. Two young people sat eating dinner, talking, laughing, flirting, eyes only for each other. Sarah’s chest compressed with a yearning so painful it was like a physical, tangible entity: the woman was Sarah’s best friend from college, Raelin Bourke, and Raelin’s boyfriend, Danny Foster. Both were dressed as if for a formal night out: Raelin in a classic little black dress, Danny in a sharp suit. She could see how they’d aged subtly since Sarah had seen them last: Raelin’s roundish face had lengthened into adult angularity; Danny, too, had lost his baby-face and now appeared more man than boy.

A waiter came over and cleared away their plates. When he departed, Danny took Raelin’s hand, speaking to her with an earnest expression. Sarah could not hear his voice, but there was no mistaking the gravity of this moment. Then he reached into a pocket and produced a small diamond on a gold band.

Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth, muffling a squawk of surprise. Danny had proposed! Raelin took the ring from him, her expression gobsmacked, and slid it onto her left hand. Then both started laughing, and Raelin lunged across the table to embrace Danny, knocking over a bottle of wine in the process. Sarah burst into laughter, eyes watering, and as she lost concentration, the vision rippled away. She blinked her eyes and regained her composure, and the scene shifted.

Sarah gasped out loud. A frozen waterway wound through a snowy park in a small town: Rosebriar Hollow, where she’d grown up. Children cavorted on the ice: skating, sliding around, their rosy faces contorted into comical silent shrieks of laughter. On the banks of the stream, adults watched, bundled up in winter coats and hats, holding cups of hot beverages in their gloved hands. A couple of grown-ups were on the ice with the kids, supervising. Sarah’s vision honed in on one tall man standing a bit apart from the other adults, watching a blond boy about eight years old in hockey skates and a bright blue parka.

“Dad, oh my God,” Sarah whispered. “Toby.”

As she watched, Toby came tearing off the ice, wobbled up to say something to Robert, then charged back onto the ice again. The last winter Sarah had been home, Toby had had all he could do to stand upright on skates, and now he was flying around the ice like a human Zamboni.

Robert’s face, animated when he’d been talking to his son, settled into an expression equal parts glum and anxious. The lines and furrows on his face were much deeper now, and his dark curls had gone almost completely gray.

“Oh, Dad,” Sarah sighed. He was worrying himself into premature old age.

He turned, and a woman came up to his side. Sarah had not forgotten that permed, hair-sprayed blonde helmet, the tight line of the mouth: Irene, Sarah’s stepmother, clad in stylish wool. No dorky, puffy, down-filled monstrosity for Irene: her tailored, double-breasted camel-colored coat looked like it had come straight from Italy, and the black-white-and-tan plaid Burberry scarf was doubtless pure cashmere. In her arms she carried a baby, a girl about Lizzie’s age, in a pink snowsuit. Now Sarah’s grief turned to a yelp of incredulity.

“They had another baby?” she almost shrieked. “No _way!_ ”

The image wavered, and Sarah pulled her concentration together before it evaoprated. Well, Irene would be just about forty now, and obviously still fertile. Mental calculation suggested she must have become pregnant right around the time Sarah vanished; the combination of circumstances must have set the Williams household in an uproar. The baby girl appeared to be four or five months old, slightly younger than Lizzie, and she looked much as Toby had at that age: blonde and cherubic. _My little sister_. Sarah realized with another pang of grief that she would never even know the baby’s name.

In contrast with Robert’s fretful expression, Irene radiated from her very pores a low-level anger and frustration. Perhaps she felt that in his endless worry about Sarah, Robert was neglecting the precious weeks and months of his younger daughter’s babyhood. _If I know her_ , Sarah thought sourly, _I bet she thinks I ran away on purpose, just to rattle their marriage and make them miserable_. She sat for a while, watching the pair converse, observing their expressions and wishing she could read lips. After a few minutes, Irene handed the baby to Robert, her body language signaling her irritation, and gestured to something Sarah couldn’t see. She vanished from the scene, and Robert stood there, bouncing the baby up and down, kissing her head with a kind of abstraction. He continued to mind Toby, but Sarah could see his thoughts were far, far away, torturing himself over the fate of his missing oldest child.

Unable to bear watching him, Sarah envisioned her mother, and in a moment, the scene in the water rippled and shifted. The contrast with the ice skating party in Rosebriar Hollow could not have been more striking. For one thing, the scene was far more adult. Women circulated in chic evening dresses and opera gloves, some with wraps about their shoulders; the men wore white tie. Sarah couldn’t see exactly where they were—a restaurant, a ballroom, a wedding?—but light sparkled everywhere: on jewelry, on delicate glassware, on crystal chandeliers. Everything Sarah observed broadcast money and prestige.

The gaze of her third eye wandered throughout the gathering until it focused on the smooth white shoulders of a woman in a strapless gown of moss green satin. Her hair was cut into a glossy black bob, and when she turned around, Sarah saw the unforgettable face of her mother, Linda: pale skin, green eyes alight beneath arched black brows, red lips curved into their eternal bewitching smile. The exquisite emerald necklace over generous décolletage and the matching stones that swung from her earlobes must have come from Tiffany or Cartier. Sarah had inherited her height and build from Robert, but her hourglass figure and heartbreaking beauty from Linda.

At Linda’s side stood a man who topped her by two or three inches, very lean, his dark blond hair swept back from a high, aristocratic forehead. Even in the tux, his tweedy Englishness proclaimed itself like tea at Fortnum & Mason: Jeremy, Linda’s long-time boyfriend, now in his mid-fifties. He held a champagne flute in one hand, and a cigarette dangled between the fingers of the other. As a girl, Sarah had though him the most romantic and debonair man imaginable; as an adult, she mostly saw someone smoking his way into pulmonary carcinoma.

Sarah’s attention shifted back to her mother, and she frowned as she studied Linda’s luminous visage, the neck and throat as white and smooth as marble. Not even a hint of middle-aged blur marred the perfect curve of Linda’s jawline. Linda had given birth to Sarah at the age of twenty-four, and she now must be forty-seven. True, she had always kept her fair complexion out of the sun, and she had the money to afford the very best of skin care and cosmetics, but even so, she appeared far younger than when Sarah had last seen her.

_She’s had plastic surgery!_ Sarah stared at her mother’s miraculously youthful face, unable to quell equal measures of shock and rage and indignation. While Robert worried himself half to death over his daughter, Linda behaved as though Sarah had never existed. In the vision, Linda tilted back her head and laughed at some amusing remark or witticism, causing heads to turn. Even after nearly two years’ absence, Sarah could recall the sound of her mother’s enchanting laugh. A few moments later, everyone came to attention and faced the same direction, couples reaching for each other’s hands, and Sarah could see they were singing. She managed to pick out a few mouthed words: “Auld Lang Syne.” Then everyone was cheering and embracing. Jeremy drew Linda into his arms for a celebratory snog.

_Yuck_. With that shudder of revulsion, the image blurred and vanished. Sarah stared into the green-hued seawater, ruminating: in the human world, it must be New Year’s Eve; time there ran a few days faster than in Aves. That would explain Raelin’s and Danny’s attire and the setting of their engagement. Rosebriar Hollow traditionally held an outdoor winter festival on the afternoon of December 31 if weather and conditions at the creek permitted; Irene and Robert must have taken Toby to the party. Jeremy and Linda appeared to have secured an invitation to some kind of swank soiree, not surprising, considering Linda’s career as an actress and Jeremy’s standing in London art circles. During Sarah’s last year in the human world, Jeremy’s father had died, leaving him a sizable estate. Some of that money, it seemed, had been splashed out on Linda’s face lift. _Irene would shit_ , the only thought that gave Sarah any consolation.

While she sat brooding over the implications of what she’d observed, the water shimmered again, although Sarah had made no conscious effort to scry. Two childish faces loomed in the tidal pool, weirdly distorted, as though Sarah were looking up at them through weakened or bleary eyes. Their expressions conveyed revulsion, then astonishment. The boy appeared to be perhaps nine or ten, the girl seven or eight. Both children had curly, ink-black hair, pale gray eyes, sensuous faces, and full-lipped mouths—the unmistakable genetic imprint of King Tylas.

A jolt of adrenaline burst through Sarah’s bloodstream, and the image vanished. Sarah clambered to her feet, shaking, aware of perspiration trickling from under her arms down to the waistband of her riding suit. Those must be the two illegitimate children Tylas had fathered, the ones of which Queen Inula had spoken, the ones now living out in the country, in the household of Lady Jacama’s other daughter—Lenia’s twin sister.

_Why would I see them in a vision?_ Sarah wondered. _I’ve never even met them. They’re two kids—why would they be important?_ Granted, her visions were capricious at best, but the tidal pool had allowed her to exercise her second sight with uncommon accuracy. Somehow, that vision must be significant. Perhaps it had only come about because of the baby Tylas and Petronia were expecting, perhaps because of the days spent in the company of the Clade Tinamotus. There were a thousand plausible reasons why Sarah’s third eye should have shown her those children, but some uneasy sense told her the true cause was yet to be revealed.

Sarah recalled the night before she and Jareth had journeyed to Aves, the last night in the Underground, when she’d dreamed of two children in green and yellow clothes, playing at a riverside. She had not been able to see their faces in that dream, but she remembered the boy had been bigger than the girl, and the probable ages of the two children appeared to be the same. What did it mean that Sarah had experienced visions of the same pair of siblings—two royal bastards—twice?

Frightened now, and desperate to put some distance between herself and the unsettling pool of water, Sarah climbed over the boulders and up to the sand dunes. She found Lenia sitting among a strand of tall sea grasses, gazing out over the ocean with a brooding expression. Loose strands of dark brown hair blew about her face. Her eyes refocused on the present when Sarah appeared, and her demeanor brightened.

“Did it work?” she asked without preamble.

“Oh, yes.” Sarah gave a shaky laugh and dropped down beside the other woman. “I saw—more than I wanted to see, really.”

“Ocean water is the best for scrying, I always think. The clarity at low tide is especially good. But you have to take care what you ask to see.”

“My parents are alive and seem to be doing well. I have a younger sister now.”

“Really?” Lenia’s gaze had drifted back out over the water again, and she didn’t appear interested in the details of Sarah’s visions—perhaps etiquette frowned on it—which was just as well. The less said about her own background, the better.

Without her usual social defenses up, Lenia looked haunted, young, and vulnerable. Sarah couldn’t see the point in ignoring the proverbial elephant in the room, and this might be the last chance she and Lenia had to speak in true privacy.

“This Prince Cerastis,” Sarah began. “How well do you know him? You looked so stunned at dinner last night. Were you not expecting this engagement?”

“No,” said Lenia, her voice rising on a note of vehemence and anger. “I had no idea the negotiations were underway. We all knew about Winsel and Princess Abronia, of course. Mother and Grandmother and Uncle Tylas have been eager to make a royal match with another kingdom, and only Varan and Eutheria have daughters of suitable age. Varan has more wealth, because of its gold and silver mines. But Colobrid and Galvodea have been hedging, waiting to see if Petronia—” Lenia broke off, her mouth clamping shut.

“It’s all right,” Sarah said, bemused. “The queen hasn’t been exactly subtle about it.”

Even though there was nobody around, Lenia dropped her voice to a whisper, as if from long habit. “She’s at the end of her third month.”

Sarah’s eyes went wide. “That far?” Petronia was almost in her second trimester, then. “I thought maybe two.”

“No, she and Tylas must’ve gotten it started as soon as they were married. The morning of the coronation, the baby quickened.”

“An auspicious sign,” Sarah smiled.

“So, King Colobrid and Queen Galvodea feel more confident marrying into the family now.” Lenia’s forehead puckered. “I just don’t understand why everyone feels like they have to secure the alliance with _two_ marriages! Isn’t one enough?”

“Petronia wants to keep one of Colobrid’s sons here as hostage,” Sarah said. “So he won’t double-cross her.” Thinking out loud, she went on, “Petronia’s not young, and pregnancy can sometimes be risky in older women. If anything happens—Goddess forbid—your family and Petronia don’t want the alliance to be threatened. Holding Cerastis here assures some kind of balance between the two kingdoms.”

“He’s so _young_ ,” Lenia spat. She made no attempt to conceal her bitterness. “But I’m the only woman of marrying age and sufficient rank in the clade right now. All my female cousins are either too old or too young, or they’re already married, like my sister.”

“I know this is no comfort, but at least you’ll have the upper hand in the marriage,” Sarah offered. “And you won’t have to leave home and go live in a strange kingdom.”

“I know that,” said Lenia, dropping her head to her knees. “And it’s no comfort.”

“Do you hate him?”

“No,” came the muffled voice, “but I’ll never love him, either.”

It was too bad, Sarah thought. Under other circumstances, given time, Lenia might come to be genuinely fond of her boyish husband. Cerastis wasn’t a bad-looking youth by any stretch, and at least his skin hadn’t been subjected to those ridiculous tattoos. He seemed to have a nice manner about him; Sarah couldn’t imagine that he would ever be cruel or domineering. But Lenia had already given her heart to another man, and marriage to anyone else, no matter whom, was only going to make her miserable.

Sarah put a hand on Lenia’s tight shoulders. What a mess the girl had gotten herself into. Sarah didn’t know anything about the social standing of royal dancers in Aves, but it seemed unlikely that a woman of Lenia’s rank, related to the new queen by marriage, would be permitted to marry a dancer of no particular distinction—even Picus, the highest-ranked male dancer in the kingdom, probably wouldn’t pass muster. But most damning of all, the young redhead was an Estridian, rivals of the Tinamoteans, a family whose political clout waned with every day of Petronia’s advancing pregnancy.

A shouted voice caused both women to snap out of their thoughts and return to the present moment.

“It’s the guards,” said Lenia, rising to her feet and shaking the sand out of her blousy trousers. “Lunch must be ready.”

“Good,” Sarah responded, standing also. She had not realized how hungry she was until that moment. “I’m famished.”

(ii)

Because the weather was so good, everyone voiced their opinion in favor of a picnic on the beach. The serving boys spread blankets on the sand, and soon baskets were being opened. There was fresh bread, some spread with mashed olives, others with a pasty spread made from ground-up nuts. Another basket held fresh fruit. There were cold meats and cheeses for those who wanted them. In another basket, Sarah found a covered earthenware dish of root vegetables that had been sliced into spears, seasoned, and roasted; the entire dish had been wrapped in layers of towels before it was packed into the basket, and the vegetables still retained some warmth.

_French fries in fairy land_ , Sarah thought with a smile, popping one into her mouth. _Who’d have thought_? Jareth had found a drawstring cloth bag full of nuts that had been shelled. Bottles of light, sweet wine were passed around. With the warm sun, the murmur of the water, and scent of salt air, Sarah could almost imagine herself on a seaside excursion back in her old life, if she closed her eyes. It didn’t quite work, though: the air was too cold.

She and Jareth took turns feeding Lizzie bits of soft bread and fruit. Sarah basked in the glow of the love she felt for her husband and daughter. Her path to marriage had been convoluted and not always easy, but she knew she would not have been truly happy or satisfied married to anyone else. How important was that profound sense of fulfillment: more important than money or status or, in Sarah’s case, her old life and her relationships with her family. In the end, she would have sacrificed anything but her free will to be with Jareth. She reached across the blanket and touched his hand; he glanced up at her with a lazy smile. The intimacy gave Sarah a new, acute understanding of Lenia’s grief and pain.

A prickling along her nerves told Sarah the tide was about to turn. The others sensed it, too, Lenia and her mother hopping to their feet and hurrying over to the tall glass cylinder. Sarah followed behind them, curious to see what kind of reading they’d get from the device. The fire beneath the cylinder had burned down to smoking ash, and nothing remained inside the glass tube save a pungent, powdery-white residue. Lady Jacama had another drawstring bag ready, this one large enough to hold only a thimble. A bare moment before the tide turned, she poured the contents of the tiny bag into the cylinder and uttered a quick incantation. The smoke from the fire dissipated into vapor and vanished.

Lenia exhaled. “Timing is everything,” she said to Sarah. “You want to get those last herbs into the cylinder at the very instant the tide is turning.” Sarah nodded, feeling the distinctive tug of the now-incoming tide. In her ears, she felt the pressure of the Pax Deorum returning; within fifteen or twenty minutes, she judged, magic would no longer be possible here at the beach.

“And there it is,” said Lady Jacama with some satisfaction, pointing to a lovely pale orchid stain that was beginning to creep up the glass cylinder from its base. As they watched, the color continued to climb, deepening as it went.

“I knew this winter was too good to be true,” Lenia said, barking a short laugh.

The purple stain kept rising, and Lady Jacama frowned. “That’s going to interfere with the wedding,” she grumbled. Lenia’s mouth twisted, signaling that she couldn’t care less if the nuptials took place or not.

As the color crept past the two-week mark, Sarah began to feel a sense of dawning uneasiness. Beside her, she could hear Jareth’s breath shift. Sarah kept waiting for the stain to stop moving, but it continued oozing upward, and it no longer seemed so beautiful, but rather like an evil tide. And the color kept getting darker, going from lavender to purple to plum as the stain rose.

“Oh, Mother,” Lenia said. “What is this?”

Lady Jacama appeared stunned into immobility, staring at the tube as if she didn’t believe her eyes.

“Could this be a mistake?” asked Sarah.

Lenia and her mother shook their heads in unison.

“If there’s a problem casting the spell, the fire won’t ignite,” said Lady Jacama. “If it fails at the end, there’s no color at all.” Under her breath, she muttered, “Will it ever stop?”

Close to the top of the tube, the stain slowed and stopped moving. The color was such a dark shade of purple it almost appeared black. Lenia hunkered close, staring at the marks etched on the tube.

“Two days from now,” she said, her voice high-pitched with fright. “And I’ve never seen a color like that.”

Lady Jacama’s eyes narrowed, and she revised her daughter’s estimate. “Maybe only a day and a half,” she said, looking up at the sun, so benign in the winter sky. “Sometime between tomorrow evening and midnight.”

Sarah ventured, “How much will it snow?”

“I’ve only ever read about a black-glass storm in old books,” said Lady Jacama. “The last one was well over five thousand years ago. The lore-keepers say it snowed for four straight days, with complete whiteout conditions. The wind was so ferocious that anything not made of stone blew down. By the time it ended, whole villages and farms had been buried—you couldn’t even see the rooftops. Hundreds of people died.” Her voice had begun to shake.

Lenia clutched her mother’s arm. “Mother, what about Alaemon? She’s out at the farm, and her baby’s due any day!”

“Send a messenger,” Sarah urged them. “If Alaemon leaves right away, would she make it to Phoebetria before the storm hits?”

“It takes eight hours, but longer if the entire household comes—it would be more like twelve. They’ll have to pack, and bring wagons. That will slow them down.”

“A rider leaving now will get there after sundown,” Sarah calculated. “If the household is on the road by midnight, they’ll be in the city by noon tomorrow.”

One of the guards said, “I’ll go.”

Sarah responded, “No, send one of the boys—they’re smaller and lighter, and the horse won’t be so tired.”

“The horses aren’t fresh,” the guard said. “They’ve already had a half-day’s ride. And there are no settlements between here and the farm where he could swap mounts.”

“Leave that to me.” Jareth spoke for the first time. “Bring me your fastest horse, quickly.”

The guard raced off the beach. One of the serving boys, a bold-looking lad of twelve or thirteen stepped forward. “I’ll go,” he said. “I can ride better than any of this lot.” He indicated the other boys, all of whom were younger than him and rather scared-looking.

Lady Jacama removed a signet ring from her right hand, which bore the symbol of the Clade Tinamotus: a wise owl, perching on a branch. She slipped the ring into one of her small cloth pouches and handed it to the boy.

“Give that to my daughter Alaemon or her husband Turnix,” she said. “They’ll know the message is from me. Tell them about the storm. They need to pack up the household and come to the city at once. Take with them only the most essential things. They _must_ leave tonight. Time is crucial. By tomorrow evening, the snow will start, and the roads will be impassable. Can you remember all that?”

The boy nodded, repeating everything back verbatim.

The guard appeared with her own horse, a gelding whose coat gleamed black as night. Jareth went and put a hand on the creature’s forehead. He uttered an incantation in the ancient goblin-tongue, and a moment later, the horse reared back on its hind legs, screaming out a whinny that could be heard for miles.

“What have you done?” Jacama cried.

The horse settled down and trotted after the Goblin King like a puppy. Jareth told the boy, “He’ll carry you to the farm without tiring and find his way back to the city, even through a blizzard. All you have to do is sit astride him, and he’ll go. Let him lead the return party.”

The boy nodded, eyes enormous.

Sarah had unbuckled the guard’s saddlebags and dumped their contents onto the blanket without ceremony. She loaded the bags with bread, nuts, and fruit. She emptied a wine bottle and told the boy, “Fill this with water at the pump and bring it with you.”

While the guard adjusted the stirrups for the boy’s shorter legs, Sarah rummaged around in the contents from the saddle bag, finding a thick muffler and a pair of mitts. She removed her own cape and wrapped it around the lad. He made a face at the woman’s garment, but the cape fit him well, and it was fur-lined. After he slid his arms through the slits in the sides, Sarah wrapped the muffler around his head, doubling the ends securely about his neck.

Once off the sand, the boy filled the empty wine bottle with water and tucked it into one of the saddle bags. Sarah wasn’t worried about his being hungry en route; she was worried that once he got to the farmstead, nobody would think to feed him.

The guard was talking to him about the best route to take.

“You know where to pick up the east-west road from here?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded.

“That will take you straight out to Alaemon’s farm. Don’t stop for anything.” She boosted him up onto the horse and made sure the girth was cinched snugly beneath the horse’s chest. The boy tugged on his mitts and took the horse’s reins into his hands. The guard said, “We’ll start looking for the party around noon tomorrow—if we can, we’ll send out riders along the east-west road. Watch for us.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gave his leg an encouraging pat with one hand. “A lot of lives are depending on you. They may not believe your message, but you must persuade them to come to the city.”

Sarah added, “If they’re obstinate and refuse to come, you return by yourself.”

He ducked his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Lenia said, “Tell Alaemon her sister and mother are begging her to come.”

“Yes, milady,” the boy responded.

Jareth said, “Well, you’re off, then.” He thumped the horse’s rear end, and the animal exploded into motion, racing up the road that led away from the beach.

Lady Jacama said, “The rest of us need to get back to the city as quickly as possible.” Indeed, the other three boys were already hauling the blankets and the remnants of the picnic back to the wagon. “People in the countryside need to be warned. Thankfully, most of the farms are closer to the city.” She sighed, “Why did Alaemon have to move so far away?”

Grimacing, Lenia said, “Because that’s the land Queen Eucissa granted her.”

The guard interjected, “We can send riders to the other farms.”

“Take my horse,” offered Sarah. “Ride to the city ahead of us and start sending out messengers. I can ride behind Jareth.”

The guard nodded and mounted the palomino mare. The others loaded the wagon with alacrity and swung aboard their horses. It was a far more sober party that rode north than had ridden south that morning, and they traveled with all due haste. Gazing about at the countryside, at the halcyon, almost cloudless sky, Sarah could hardly believe the next day would bring a storm of such magnitude. Lenia and her mother didn’t speak, riding in frightened silence, the wedding now the furthest thing from their minds. Sarah suspected their thoughts were with the adolescent serving boy, who by now must be tearing his way across the kingdom.

They reached the city by late mid-afternoon, the sun already dropping in the western sky. Even from outside the walls, Sarah could see the city had become a buzzing hive of purposeful activity. A couple of grooms met them at the South Gate and took charge of the horses. Another pair rode out along the road to collect the wagon and the ponies, which lagged behind.

Inside the gatehouse, a guard apprised them of the situation.

“Riders have gone out to the farmsteads,” the woman said. “The queen’s been given the news as well, and preparations are underway in the city. All families are to come stay in the palace, and they’ve been ordered to bring their livestock with them, even if they have to travel during the night.”

“Will there be enough room for the animals?” asked Sarah.

The guard said, “Oh, aye, the royal stables are extensive, and there’s a large shed for other livestock. At the end of summer, shepherds migrate their flocks to Telluraves, so there’s only the few animals that’re left at each farmstead.”

Another guard, joining the conversation, said, “The queen’s ordered as much firewood as possible to be stockpiled in the city. People have been told to secure their property, get any loose objects inside and under cover. There’ll be no markets or trading tomorrow, so people have time to get ready.” The guard addressed Lady Jacama, “My lady, the queen wishes to speak with you immediately.”

“Of course.”

The two women departed, and Lenia strolled with Jareth and Sarah over the South Gate Overpass. Sarah gazed down into the city, watching people’s swift, focused movements.

“What about the people in the Outer Boulevard?” she asked.

“Pardon?” said Lenia, startled out of her thoughts.

“What about the salt miners and peat boggers?” At Lenia’s glazed, pained expression, Sarah said impatiently, “Yes, I know I’m officially not supposed to know about them. Those huts they’re living in are never going to hold up to the kind of wind your mother’s predicting, and if the storm goes on for days, people are going to be buried alive, if their homes haven’t blown over first.”

Lenia appeared flummoxed. It was as if the well-being of people in the Outer Boulevard had not occurred to her until that very moment.

“Well?” Sarah pressed.

“I don’t… that’s really up to Queen Petronia,” Lenia waffled.

“May I speak with her, then?” Sarah ignored the pointed look Jareth was shooting her.

“Yes… of course. After you’ve had a chance to change clothes and freshen—”

“No.” Sarah shook her head in two vehement swings from side to side. “Now.”

“I don’t—”

“ _Now_.”

Lenia caved in. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she murmured, and once off the South Bridge Overpass, dutifully led Sarah in the direction of the Eagle Suite.

(iii)

Queen Petronia had just finished her audience with Lady Jacama. Sarah barely waited for the guard to announce her before sweeping into the presence chamber, ignoring the sneers of the queen’s ladies. Sarah strode across the room, disregarding royal protocol, heedless of her windswept hair and disheveled appearance, not caring one whit about the dust and grit she was tracking across Petronia’s carpets.

Before the queen could so much as sputter out a protest, Sarah closed in on her.

“Your Majesty, the people in the Outer Boulevard and the Market Circle must be allowed to stay in the palace for the duration of the storm.”

Petronia found her voice. “You presume to order me about in my own palace!”

“The lives of your subjects are at stake, Your Majesty. Even if their homes hold up to the wind, they’re apt to be buried alive in snow.”

“Absolutely not! There isn’t enough space! Where would we put everyone?”

“Your majesty, since I arrived at this palace, I’ve counted every empty room, and by my reckoning, you have well over a thousand rooms where people could be quartered.”

“Peat boggers and salt miners, under this roof? Are you out of your mind?”

“Your Majesty will hardly be sharing closet space with them.”

A wave of shocked titters went around the room. Everyone watched with wide eyes as the two headstrong queens sparred.

“I won’t have that filth in my home!”

“At your coronation, two nights ago, you swore a vow to protect the people of your kingdom!” Sarah almost yelled. “I don’t remember a clause anywhere in there about salt miners and peat boggers being excluded!”

Petronia stood with her mouth agape; possibly nobody in her life had spoken to her thus, not even her mother. In his chair, King Tylas sat shrinking into the cushions, as if he wished he could vanish. On the queen’s other side, Lady Jacama stood, staring at Sarah with an awestruck, flabbergasted expression.

In that moment, Lenia broke the heated stalemate. She swept graciously in front of Sarah and dropped to her knees before the red-haired, red-faced queen.

“Please, your majesty,” she said, eyes fixed on the hem of Petronia’s gown. “I beg you to consider the lives of your most wretched and abject subjects.”

Petronia’s countenance softened by a fraction.

“Your Majesty, I realize this is an extraordinary request, and normally I would not presume upon your charity and hospitality. But, as my mother will testify, the storm we are expecting is like nothing any of us have experienced in our lifetimes. Surely some small, rude accommodation can be provided for the subjects who toil for you so loyally.”

Sarah’s lips pressed into a tight line as she watched Petronia melt under this entreaty.

“If I may be permitted to presume further—Your Majesty, the Summer Hall is completely empty and unused. It could become a dormitory for the salt miners and peat boggers—they could even bring their own bedding. And when the Pax Deorum is over, and the snow can be cleared, they’ll return to their own homes, and you wouldn’t be troubled or inconvenienced in the least. Queen Sarah is correct that the entire north wing is unused in winter—perhaps those rooms could be used to house the families from the Market Circle.”

“And how would those rooms be heated?” the queen inquired.

“Your Majesty, every citizen could bring as much peat as she or he can carry—their own blankets as well, and perhaps food. There’s an auxiliary kitchen in the north wing; perhaps the cooks from the taverns would be willing to work.”

Petronia was almost smiling now.

“Surely future generations will praise not only Your Majesty’s level thinking in the face of this crisis, but also the compassion you extend to your most lowly subjects.” Lenia played her final card. “Your Majesty, I would beg this boon of you—as a wedding gift. In gratitude, I would ask for nothing else.”

Sarah could only imagine what it had cost Lenia to speak those words. Lady Jacama’s mouth curled into a satisfied smile.

King Tylas took his feet. In a lazy drawl, he murmured to his wife, “My love, perhaps you would not want an entire workforce to perish in one storm. Sheltering the peasants for a fortnight assures someone will be alive to work the salt plain and the peat bogs next summer.”

The queen exhaled. “Very well,” she said, irritation replaced by a munificent expression. Jerking her head at her guards, she commanded, “You heard my niece. See to it.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the women chorused and hastened from the room.

Petronia stepped forward, and Lenia kissed the offered hand. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said. Sarah helped the young woman to her feet.

Ignoring the Goblin Queen, Petronia gently stroked Lenia’s cheek. “When this nuisance has passed, we’ll have a grand celebration to honor your marriage,” she said. “The most splendid wedding imaginable.”

“Your Majesty is too generous.”

Once they were dismissed and outside the presence chamber, Sarah murmured, “You played her like a fiddle.”

Lenia’s eyes were hollow. “I did what had to be done.”

Sarah grabbed her by the elbow. “Thank you. I can’t thank you enough. I went about it all wrong and made an ass out of myself. If those people survive the storm, it’ll be because you knew what to say.”

“I know her better than you. That’s all.” Lenia nodded. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me.” She scurried away, heels tapping across the marble floors.

“Oh, my dear, I do hope you know what beast you may have unleashed,” Jareth said under his breath.

Sarah took Lizzie from his arms, cuddling the baby close to her. “Whatever happens, it’ll be worth it.”

Outside the Eagle Suite, Jareth broke into peals of laughter. He sounded like he’d been containing his mirth all throughout the audience with Petronia. Still chuckling, he kissed the top of Sarah’s head.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“The look on Petronia’s face,” he said. “You were brilliant. ‘Closet space.’ It was worth all the fuss and bother just to see that look on her face.”

Sarah managed a grin. “I do nothing by half,” she agreed, and they made their way back to their own quarters.

(iv)

After the audience with the queen, Sarah felt as though she ought to be doing something, contributing something to the storm preparation efforts, though she could scarcely think what. By nightfall, the entire city was alive with activity. Petronia’s guards had announced that, by order of the queen, everyone in the city would move into the palace for the duration of the storm—even people with houses in the Queen’s Yards were advised to take shelter in the palace. In the morning, denizens of the Queen’s Yards and all their households would be moved into their temporary quarters. Around noon, the evacuation of the Market Circle would begin. And before nightfall, the peat boggers and salt miners would enter the palace through a service door in the north wing; they were under strict orders not to leave the Summer Hall.

The preparations went on until midnight and were underway again by dawn. Sarah was up early, after a night of fitful sleep, donning ordinary warm garb. She spent much of the morning pacing the upper levels of the Falcon Suite, standing out on stone balconies and staring up at the sky. Incredible as it seemed, the sun still shone, not a cloud to be seen, though her goblin senses detected the minute change in the atmosphere. Using service corridors, she circled around to the northeast wing of the palace and climbed to the highest level. She found a balcony in a disused room that provided a good vantage point to view the activity in the surrounding countryside. For an hour, she watched as groups of people appeared on the north-south road, some on foot, others on horseback. Servants steered pony-hauled carts laden with food, wood, and blankets. Farmers guided sheep and goats. Children carried fowl in cages. Sarah’s keen ears detected faint bleats of animals, the hum of conversation, even laughter and song. Many people appeared to be treating the evacuation as an adventure. Among the farmers came a steady stream of woodsmen, bearing bundles of wood and kindling in wagons and on their backs.

Circling around to another part of the palace, Sarah observed the livestock shed—connected to the outer wall, she was relieved to see, by a covered walkway. The shed itself was large, with a stone base and a thick, sturdy wooden roof; she hoped it would hold up in the coming gale. From the upper level of the south wing, Sarah watched the residents of the Queen’s Yards, warmly bundled in wool and furs, make their way into the palace.

In her travels, Sarah paused here and there to eavesdrop on conversations: she gathered that once everyone was in the palace, the outer gates of the city and the gates of the palace would be shut and bolted. Use of the high bridges during the storm would be prohibited. Scores of maids had been deployed throughout the palace, opening disused rooms, dusting, making up beds, setting out firewood and candles. She heard a fair deal of grumbling that all this preparation was a waste of time; could the storm really be as serious as Lady Jacama said? Sarah listened in particular to the conversations of the palace guards, but if there had been any word from Lenia’s sister, Sarah didn’t hear of it.

By noon, the Queen’s Yards stood deserted and quiet, the fine houses closed and made fast, windows and doors shuttered. The evacuation of the Market Circle began, precinct by precinct, in an orderly fashion, nobody rushing or shoving or panicking. Sarah had to admire the efficiency with which the city guards worked. She skipped lunch to watch the process. By then, almost without her being aware of it, a thin film of clouds had begun to cover the sky, little by little, not blocking out the sunlight, but dimming it. Not a breath of wind stirred; in fact, the air was so still that sound carried over long distances, creating eerie echoes among the walls and canyons of the city.

Sarah found her way to the guardhouse in the city’s west gate and spoke with the women she found on duty there.

“Has there been any news of Lady Jacama’s daughter?” she asked. “It’s after noon.”

“Not yet,” one of the guards told her. “They have a long way to travel.”

“What about people from the other farms?”

“They’re almost all here,” the woman responded. She didn’t seem surprised by Sarah’s interest; maybe she was too busy and distracted to give it much thought. “There’s two more families, but we know where they are—they’ll be here within the hour. No, it’s Alaemon everyone’s concerned about. For all we know, she could be in labor, and that’s bound to slow them down.”

Sarah shuddered, thinking about when she’d given birth to Lizzie. The baby had been born during the middle of summer; Sarah had been in her tower room, attended by Jareth and two goblin midwives. The labor hadn’t even taken very long, but the thought of going through that experience in the freezing cold, out in the middle of nowhere, made Sarah’s teeth ache.

There didn’t seem to be anywhere else to go, and nothing she could do. Sarah didn’t feel like returning to the Falcon Suite, so she ambled without aim about the enormous palace, ducking into side rooms and service corridors whenever she heard approaching voices. The palace appeared to be filling up. When Sarah found herself at a familiar spot in the service corridors, she took a lantern from its niche and opened the door to the hidden corridor. She only needed a few moments to locate the door to the watchtower steps. She ascended the stairs; the climb didn’t seem so strenuous without the tight corset and heavy, voluminous skirts. At the top, she opened the trap door and climbed into the room.

She wondered why nobody had thought to utilize this vantage point in the current crisis: the circle of windows provided an unobstructed 360-degree view of the entire city. Sarah uncovered the windows one by one, opening the heavy wooden shutters and folding them aside. Daylight did not become the small room. The dust sheet on the bed was still rumpled from Sarah’s tryst with Jareth. Feeling sheepish, Sarah gave the sheet a hard shake and re-draped the narrow bed. A faint musk of sex and sweat lingered in the air. Flashes of that night came back: Sarah tied to the bedframe, skirts up about her hips, Jareth between her thighs, his body undulating with urgent thrusts into hers.

She turned away from the bed, experiencing not shame, exactly, but a peculiar sense of mortification. Ever since her arrival in the city, Sarah had thought about little except her own pleasure, and indeed, all aspects of life in the palace were devised to assure she focused on nothing else. She’d had few real qualms about ordering herself the most extravagant garments conceivable. She’d worried herself almost into a frenzy about how she and Jareth would appear. The thought that another woman might be more beautiful than her had been enough to induce a minor panic attack. She had enjoyed the most astonishing music; books full of knowledge and lore; dance performances that delighted the senses. Sarah had been served delicious food at every meal, which she’d eaten whether she’d been hungry or not. She’d spent almost a fortnight lolling about in indolent luxury, rarely thinking beyond anything but the next diversion or amusement. Considering how sated she’d been every day—even the most ordinary things in the palace were embellished to the level of the divine—it was no small wonder that she’d wanted Jareth to ravish her. Anything less perverse would have felt inadequate.

Sarah stood at the north window, watching the activity below. In the distance, she could see a line of brown-clad stooped figures, tiny at this distance, snaking its way through the north gate and into a door in the wall. The people of the Outer Boulevard, whose virtual slave labor provided the city with the luxuries of peat and salt, were not permitted to walk through the deserted city to the palace. They’d been made to leave the city, either by the east or west gate, and walk around the city wall to the north gate, so that none of Phoebetria’s other residents would be offended by the sight of them. This realization caused Sarah no end of shame. These people suffered horribly—she knew that, she’d seen their plight first-hand—and yet, every time her thoughts had returned to the people of the Outer Boulevard, her attention would be distracted by some frivolous thing, and she would forget about them, as if the salt miners and peat boggers had ceased to exist.

The sad parade continued, overseen by a half-dozen tall, armed, powerful-looking guards. There would be no serf rebellion here in Phoebetria. The people were too weak, their bodies too deteriorated by hard labor. They had no armaments, no way to organize, and nobody in the kingdom who would advocate for them. The beauty of Aves was blighted, Sarah thought, by this shameful caste system, the ugliest citizens doomed to life as pariahs.

No matter how she tried to stay focused, her thoughts kept stealing back to the night of the ball: the thrill of Jareth chasing her up the tower steps, the delicious surrender of control, the sensation of his lips on her breasts, his tongue on her clitoris, his finger inside her quim, to say nothing of all the lascivious things he’d said to her. Sarah flushed: it was as if he’d mind-read her most torrid adolescent fantasies about him. They never role-played at home, so why had she encouraged that here? Why? How could she indulge in such infantile self-gratification while so many people endured deprivation and penury?

The last dozen or so salt miners straggled through the gate, trailed by another couple of guards. Sarah realized the people were carrying bundles in their arms—bedding? Wouldn’t bedding be provided for them? Would anyone see to it they were fed? Then the last brown-clad figure vanished. Sarah watched a guard shut the door and lock it with a key.

So Petronia had kept her word. At the back of Sarah’s mind, she’d half-expected that the queen would not honor the promise she’d made to Lenia. Sarah nodded, experiencing a mixture of satisfaction and relief. No matter how sparse the accommodations, the people of the Outer Boulevard were inside, sheltered from the brunt of the storm.

Sarah went to the western-facing windows, looking for signs of movement on the east-west road. Her mind wandered again: now to the room in the Falcon Suite, Jareth pushing her down on the bed, fucking her from behind, a memory so vivid she could still feel the sensation of his cock deep inside her. Maybe it had been a mistake to come back so soon to the tower; she couldn’t keep her attention steady, as if the intensity of their rutting had left in the room a phantasm, a half-life creature determined to pull Sarah down into an undertow of erotic forgetfulness.

From nowhere, a cold wind gusted through the windows, ruffling the dust sheets so that they fluttered like mournful ghosts. Sarah shuddered, all thoughts of carnality banished. The main body of the storm appeared to be approaching. One by one, she covered the windows and made sure the shutters were securely fastened before exiting the tower room and pulling the trap door shut behind her.

(v)

With nowhere else to go, Sarah returned to the west gatehouse. The watch had changed, and different women were on duty. One of them was clattering through the gate on horseback, wrapped in a muffler and a thick cloak. Beneath the wrappings, her face was bright red.

A second guard helped her off the horse. “Any sign?”

“Nothing,” the first guard responded. “That wind bodes nothing but ill.” As if in agreement, a frigid gust swept through the open gate, lifting straw and debris off the stones.

After the first guard had taken her horse to be cooled down, the second guard asked Sarah, “Anything I can do for you, Your Majesty?”

“I’m only concerned about Alaemon,” Sarah told her. “Her twin sister, Lenia, has been my hostess for the coronation, and I know she’s very worried.”

“Oh, aye, Lenia’s been down here a few times herself.”

Sarah peered out at the sky, which had grown darker as the cloud cover thickened. Night would come early.

“How much daylight is left?” she asked.

“Perhaps two hours,” the guard estimated.

Sarah sniffed the air, which now carried the unmistakable scent of snow. Funny how she had never forgotten that smell, all too-well remembered from her lifetime in central and upstate New York. And remarkable how here, in Aves, a Fae kingdom whose existence she could scarcely have imagined before age fifteen, the smell of snow was identical.

“The storm will start around sunset, just as Lady Jacama predicted,” she said.

“Oh, aye,” the guard agreed. “The lady isn’t often wrong about these things.”

“They should have been here by now,” Sarah fretted.

The guard said, “That would depend on what time they left and how slowly they’re traveling.”

Another gust of icy wind drove through Sarah like knives. Before she could stop herself from speaking, she said, “Would it be possible for me to ride out?”

The guard was astonished at this question. “It’s for you to decide that, Your Majesty. You’re free to do as you please.”

Sarah rephrased her request. “Could I borrow a good horse, and perhaps a warmer cloak?” Physical activity might give her a sense of purpose. “I won’t go far.”

The guard acquiesced, and with all due haste, a lively red horse was brought out from the stables, saddled and ready to go. Another guard would accompany Sarah, and she provided one of the lovely thick cloaks the guards wore, a hat, a muffler, and a pair of mitts. They mounted up and rode out, the horses fresh and eager. Whether or not this errand accomplished anything, the exercise was its own tonic.

“Wind’s from the north,” the guard said, adjusting her cloak. She was a young woman, scarcely more than a teenager, with rosy cheeks and eyes like cornflowers. A tangle of fair curls framed the face beneath her protective helmet. “The storm’s coming right down from the frozen wastes.”

“If it’s this bad now, it’s going to be terrible by tomorrow,” Sarah remarked.

“Aye, they’re saying this is going to make even our worst blizzards look like an autumn frost.”

“I’m so glad everyone’s inside the city,” said Sarah.

The guard said, “If we ride out as far as the first crossroads, we’ll have enough time to get back before dark. If there’s no sign of them, we’ll have to turn around right away. With these clouds, it’s going to be dark early tonight. Normally we could have gone a bit further, but this weather is far from normal. I’d rather not take chances.”

“All right,” Sarah responded. “You know this terrain better than me, so I’ll trust your judgment.”

They rode without further conversation for a few more miles. Every time the elevation of the road rose, Sarah tried to see further, without success. The guard, meanwhile, scanned the road for signs of animal droppings. They went on and on, Sarah by now hunching into her cloak. The wind was vicious, out here with nothing but rolling hills and grasslands to break it.

With the sky growing ever more gloomy, they approached the crossroads. A wooden sign on a post, shaking in the wind, marked the north-south junction. Sarah stared west but a rise in the road obstructed her view.

“How high is that?” she asked, pointing. “How far can you see from it?”

“A fair distance, but that hill is a mile off, Your Majesty. We need to turn back.”

“I’d like to ride there and look.”

The guard sighed.

“I’ll be quick.” Without waiting for a response, Sarah nudged her horse into a fast canter. The animal covered the distance with good speed and ascended the hill. The guard was right: the view was excellent: even under the lowering sky, Sarah could see the entire countryside spread out around her, dried grasses rippling in all directions like waves in the ocean. She focused her keen goblin-eyesight toward the west. There, just at the edge of the horizon, was that movement she saw? Sarah sat for a few moments, wind whipping around her. Maybe it was the grass waving, or an optical illusion.

She heard hoofbeats, and from behind her the guard’s voice. “Your Majesty, we really must return to the palace before it gets any darker.”

Sarah kept staring west, refusing to surrender hope. Then she saw it again, the movement of a solid mass, dark on dark, but coming closer.

“It’s them!” she said, pointing. “There!”

Now the guard could see them. “By the Goddess! You have hawk’s eyes, Your Majesty! What’s been keeping them so long?”

“I’m going to ride out to them,” Sarah said. “You wait here, where they can see you. When they get closer, start waving.”

Sarah took off, charging down the hill and riding west, as fast as she dared press the horse. Now she could see the front riders of the traveling party, moving at a maddening pace. She tried to holler a greeting, but the wind swallowed her voice.

“Hallo!” a faint voice came to her.

Sarah waved. They were closer now, no more than a mile off, close enough for Sarah to hear, despite the wind, the clopping of hooves and the rattle of wagons.

A black horse detached itself from the company and sprang forward. In moments, the young serving boy was beside her, face chapped red but gloriously pleased with himself.

“Her ladyship’s baby is coming,” he announced. “They’ve got her in a covered litter, and the midwife is attending her.” Sarah noted a wagon that had been outfitted with a wooden frame and draped with canvas.

“When did you leave?” she asked the lad.

“A few hours after midnight,” he answered. “It’s a big farmstead with a lot of outbuildings, and it took a while to get everyone organized and packed. The old ones and little ones can’t walk or ride, so they’re in the other wagons, and that’s slowed us down. The animals are tired, Your Majesty. And her ladyship was none too pleased at having to leave her home in the middle of the night.”

The caravan was moving closer, and Sarah heard the unmistakable groan of a woman in labor.

A good-looking man with a russet beard rode up to greet Sarah. He wore a fur hat and a thick, fur-trimmed coat, and his face was burned raw from the incessant wind. He pulled his horse up short at the sight of her goblin brows, and he glared at the serving boy for an explanation.

“What trickery is this?” the man exploded.

Sarah straightened her back and raised her head, aware of how imposing she looked on horseback. “I’m Sarah, Queen of the Goblins,” she announced, pleased to see him flinch. She gestured back toward the hill, where the guard sat waving. “I’ve ridden out with that guard to find your party. The queen and her family are terribly worried about Alaemon.”

“Not as worried as me,” the man spat. “I’m Turnix, her husband. Her water broke almost as soon as we were on the road. She’s been in labor the entire journey.” He wheeled his horse around, and he and Sarah rode east, side by side, ahead of the caravan. “The midwife says the baby is going to be born within the hour, and if she and the child survive, it will be nothing short of miraculous. I aim to have words with my mother-in-law when we reach the palace. Alaemon should be at home in bed, not on the road in this Goddess-forsaken wilderness.”

“You’d be less pleased if you stayed on the farm and were buried alive in snow,” Sarah shot back. “I witnessed the weather-working spell—the glass turned _black_. Lady Jacama says there hasn’t been a storm like this for over five thousand years.” She looked up at the sky, then twisted around to observe the train of wagons, horseback riders, and in the rear, a half-dozen goats and sheep. “You’re going to need to move faster.”

“We’re moving as fast as we can,” Turnix retorted. He glanced ahead and said, “And that hill won’t make it any easier.”

“From the hill, it’s a mile to the crossroad,” Sarah told him, “and from the crossroad, another few miles to the palace. Mostly downhill.” She gestured to her side the young lad, as indefatigable as his enchanted horse. “Ride ahead of us to the palace,” she ordered. His was the only horse that wasn’t tired. “Have guards with torches ride out to us. It’s going to be dark before we reach the palace, and light will help. Bring extra mounts, to help pull these wagons. And blankets!”

“Yes, your majesty!” the boy sang out, kicking the black gelding into a run. The animal crested the hilltop and vanished down the other side.

The guard came down to greet Turnix. She asked Sarah, “What order did you give the boy?”

“To bring out riders with torches,” Sarah responded. “And extra horses.” Another muffled groan came from the covered litter. “Alaemon’s at the end of her labor. She needs to get to the palace as quickly as possible. There are children and old people in some of the other wagons. Everyone must be frozen half to death by now.”

“You take the lead, then. I’ll circle around the back.”

Sarah didn’t think she’d ever endured a wait as agonizing as the time it took to get the entire caravan up and over that hill: there were horses and ponies, their heads hanging with fatigue; two dozen wagons, some carrying people huddled in blankets, some laden with supplies or crates of fowl, judging by the clucking that emerged from beneath blankets. Some servants and farmhands trotted on foot at the rear, urging along the bleating sheep and goats. At last the livestock came down the hill and onto level ground, the guard following behind them at a walk. Sarah urged her horse to the head of the party, which had almost reached the crossroads, riding beside Turnix, whose expression alternated between smoldering anger and frantic worry.

The level of light had dropped, but enough remained, Sarah thought, to see them to the point where at least the city would be visible. The wind had risen, blowing with increased force, making progress that much more difficult, and the cold had become intolerable. On the ride west, the right side of Sarah’s face had taken the brunt of the wind, and now it was the left side that burned and stung. _Nowhere to go but straight forward_ , she told herself, ducking her head against the worst of the gusts and turning to check the party behind her when the wind abated.

As they rode, she counted the seconds between Alaemon’s loud groans. Without a timepiece she couldn’t be sure, but there was no mistaking that the contractions were coming closer together. Turnix furrowed his brow, his eyes full of torment, and Sarah could see what effort it cost him to keep moving.

The gloom of the day was now deepening into true twilight, and Sarah reckoned they had maybe thirty minutes before night fell. A speck of grit from the road hit her cheek, and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. A few moments later, another speck struck her nose.

Turnix broke out of his reverie of deep anxiety. “Snow’s starting.” Even in the low level of light, Sarah could see the tiny white dots that landed on his dark sleeve.

Snow. This was like no snow Sarah had experienced, the individual flakes so tiny they were almost microscopic. It was the intense, dry cold, she realized, that was making the snow as small and fine as grains of sand. It stung the skin like miniscule shards of ice, but at least it wasn’t accumulating on the road—yet. The wind saw to that. Sarah tried to console herself with the knowledge of how much worse this would be if the snow were wet, heavy, and slippery. Still, she experienced nightmarish flashbacks to upstate New York winters, in particular, a March squall she’d been caught in after attending a lecture at Syracuse University. The highway between Syracuse and Oneida had been a hazardous mess, forcing traffic almost to a standstill, and she’d finally arrived back at her dorm after four harrowing hours on the road, shaking from stress and weariness.

The party rumbled and plodded onward at its infuriating snail’s pace, and Sarah began to despair they would ever get back to the palace. The snow fell more visibly now, still only flurries, but from time to time a wind-driven burst of white would blot out the road ahead of them. Sarah’s greatest fear wasn’t the darkness: it was the possibility of losing their way in the blinding snow, blundering into a marsh, and never finding their way out.

Then she and Turnix crested a small hilltop: not especially high, but with sufficient elevation to reveal the shadowy outline of the city. And making its way west was a line of fast-moving orange dots. Turnix let out a small cry of relief, his body sagging in the saddle.

“It’s them!” Sarah croaked.

The imminent arrival of the rescue party put fresh energy into exhausted limbs, and the travelers staggered forward at a less zombie-like pace. Sarah didn’t know how long it took the first riders to reach them—it could have been minutes, it could have been hours; she had lost all sense of time—but like angels of mercy, the torch-wielding city guards appeared in the distance, and then, out of nowhere, materialized at her side.

“Your Majesty,” one of the women said, throwing a spare cloak to Sarah, who wrapped the garment about herself with shaking hands. Another guard was handing a cloak to Turnix, while a third went to inspect the covered litter. Faster than Sarah would have dreamed possible, the guards had unhitched the exhausted ponies from their traces and harnessed two fresh, strong horses to the wagon.

By now, almost complete darkness had fallen, and the torches blew fitfully in the gale. As soon as the litter was ready, a pair of guards—including Sarah’s escort—led it away, toward the city, at what seemed like warp speed. Turnix, now on a different horse, rode alongside the two women. More guards had arrived and were taking charge of the exhausted horses. Sarah refused to take a new mount, insisting the horses should be given to members of Alaemon’s household. More guards kept coming, hitching fresh animals to the wagons and handing around cloaks and blankets.

“Go back to the city,” one of the women told Sarah. “We’ll see to the animals.” The entire procession, now moving much faster, rattled down the road toward Phoebetria. With every rise in the terrain, the city grew closer, and Sarah spied yellow-orange lights in the west tower, still far-off, but a beacon of hope nevertheless. She blessed the riders’ torches, which provided at least some small illumination: the darkness was now absolute, and the flurries had thickened into a light but steady snowfall, blown about the road in swirling, serpentine patterns. The remainder of the guards followed behind, shepherding the livestock.

By now, Sarah was so numb she could barely feel anything; she couldn’t hear above the banshee shriek of the wind, and if not for the light of the torches, she wouldn’t have been able to see anything—a complete sensory vacuum. She forced her numb eyelids to stay up, focusing on the tower lights, as if they were a golden rope pulling her to safety. The massive city walls loomed higher, then higher, and through the whirling snow-devils, Sarah could begin to make out the shapes of windows and crenellations.   The road dipped again, but the riders were now close enough to the city so that the walls did not disappear from view.

About a mile from the gate, the guards’ torches began to sputter. But another cluster of women on horseback was riding out to greet the main party, fresh torches in hand.

Sarah’s raw throat wouldn’t let her speak; she had to swallow a few times to force her vocal chords into motion.

“Alaemon?” she rasped.

One of the women said, “She’s in the queen’s own rooms, attended by the priestesses of the temple. The baby’s coming any moment. They’re in the hands of the Goddess now.”

Sarah grunted a sound of relief. Up ahead, the west gate stood open like a portal to paradise, and when Sarah rode through the archway, for the first time in hours not buffeted by the scouring wind, she gasped out loud. Strong arms helped her dismount, supporting her over to a seat by the enormous fire in the guardhouse fireplace; Sarah’s legs would not hold her up. In a second chair sat the guard who had been Sarah’s escort, swaddled in blankets. Divested of her helmet, she appeared even younger, thick golden curls tumbling about her shoulders. Her face was crimson from windburn, but she managed a weak smile of triumph as the Goblin Queen sat.

Someone held a cup of hot broth to Sarah’s face, but she flinched away from the smell of meat. “Tea?” she somehow whispered.

There was no tea, but an earthenware mug of hot, mulled wine served just as well. Eyes bleary from strain, Sarah watched through the arched gatehouse door as the procession came through, people being eased out of wagons and off of horses, everything going in different directions: the wagons into the courtyard, people into the palace, horses toward the stables. As the heat of the fire soaked into Sarah’s body, she began to shake in violent convulsions. Blankets were wrapped around her. She drank the hot wine in slow sips, and warmth began to seep through her bloodstream. The tension in her muscles eased. It was all right. Everyone had survived. Sarah’s chin dropped toward her chest, eyelids fluttering.

A movement in the corner of her eye brought up her head with a jerk: out in the corridor, children were being steered along, some on their own feet, others carried in the arms of adults. All were swathed in cloaks and blankets, rendering the small figures into gray and brown lumps, but there was something about one child in particular that jogged Sarah’s memory—the shape of the body, the peculiar gait? As she struggled to rise, the figures moved out of sight. Her feet, stinging and burning, refused to support her.

Strong hands pushed Sarah back into her seat, and a voice soothed, “It’s all right. They’ll be eating their dinner in front of a fire in a few moments.” Sarah tried to protest, but her voice and body would not cooperate. She sank back into the seat. Across from her, the guard had fallen asleep, her head lolling on her chest.

With a comical chorus of nickering and bleats, the final members of the party arrived, the animals shaggy with snow, but none the worse for wear.

“…through the courtyard and out to the livestock shed… water and warm food…” a voice said, and Sarah heard the sounds of guards taking charge of the animals. There was a clatter of horses’ hooves and the exclamations of the last guards to arrive at the watchtower.

“That’s everyone,” a loud female voice announced.

“Are you certain?” another voice inquired.

“Absolutely. I’m the last one, and I made sure there was no one else behind me.”

A few moments later came a colossal _boom_ , as the city gate—stout oak, reinforced with strips of iron, as thick as a ship’s hull—was pulled shut. Sarah heard a scrape of iron on wood: massive bolts sliding into place. The scream of the wind diminished to a muffled whine. All around the gatehouse, windows were being shuttered, torches extinguished. The drafts of icy wind ceased, to be replaced by a diffuse but pervasive chill.

“Your Majesty?”

Sarah didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until the guard spoke. The empty mug had fallen to the floor.

“Oh,” she said, embarrassed.

“Can you stand?”

Sarah shrugged off the blanket and the two cloaks. She unwound the muffler and removed her hat. She clutched the arms of the chair and managed to haul herself to her unsteady feet.

“I believe this is yours.” The guard handed Sarah her fur-trimmed indoor cape.

“Thank you.” Sarah drew the cape about her shoulders. It seemed a lifetime since she’d taken it off to go riding. She glanced over at her escort, who was awake and drinking hot broth.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” the girl grinned, her head tipping to one side. Her voice was raspy. “Please forgive my not bowing. I can’t seem to feel my feet.”

Sarah admired that little gesture of bravado; the inference that daring rescue missions were all part and parcel of a guard’s daily life. “I don’t even know your name,” she admitted.

“Fayannah, your majesty.”

“Fayannah. Thank you. For everything.”

Again the cocky grin, the display of even white teeth. “All in an evening’s work.”

“Are you all right to walk?” the second guard asked Sarah.

“I think so.” After the agony of pins and needles, normal sensation had returned to Sarah’s feet. Her limbs were aching and stiff, but after a few tentative steps, she began to move with more ease. The guard escorted Sarah from the guardhouse and through a corridor. They went down a flight of steps and into a tunnel: cold and stone, lit with lanterns and torches. The more Sarah moved, the better she felt, warm blood circulating to loosen her sore muscles.

“This goes under the city,” the guard explained. “We’re trying to keep people out of the courtyards, as much as possible. The gates between the city circles have all been shut and bolted. Now that everyone’s inside, we’ll be closing up the watchtowers.”

“What about that tall one, in the middle of the palace?” asked Sarah.

“Oh, that’s never used any more,” the guard answered. She didn’t seem to regard Sarah’s casual question as anything other than ordinary curiosity. “At one time, I believe it was used to watch for ships coming along the coast, but it’s been closed up for years. I’ve heard rumors Queen Petronia plans to have the whole thing pulled down, but nothing’s been done about it yet. Of course, she couldn’t have given that order when old Queen Eucissa was alive.” They’d reached the junction of two corridors, and the guard turned right. “Maybe next spring.”

The passageway seemed to go on forever, but after an indeterminate pace of time, it ended at a door that opened onto a flight of steps up into another guardhouse. “This is the west entrance of the palace,” the guard said. Sarah was handed over to a second guard, who would escort her back to the Falcon Suite. The journey through the palace to the southwest wing was slow—since they couldn’t use the bridges, the guard explained, they had to take the long way around, and she led Sarah through a maze of staircases, corridors, and common rooms. The difference now was that the palace was almost fully occupied. Everywhere they went, Sarah heard the sounds of voices, smelled the smoke of fires. The scent of food made her realize she’d eaten nothing since breakfast.

There was a flurry of rapid footsteps, excited voices, and a cluster of maids swirled out of a side corridor, arms full of linens, faces alight with excitement.

“What news?” the guard asked them.

“The queen’s niece had her baby, a most beautiful daughter,” gushed one of the girls. “We’re on our way there now with fresh linens.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sarah told them, her own hunger and weariness forgotten.

“Of course.” The maids seemed abashed to have the Goblin Queen travel through the service corridors, but Sarah assured them she didn’t mind. She smiled inwardly: thanks to Jareth, she now knew these corridors as well as the palace servants. And the hidden passageways would get them through the palace much more quickly.

The south wing hummed with activity, and a sense of gladness pervaded the air. As Sarah walked through the presence chamber, Lenia came out of nowhere, throwing herself at the Goblin Queen in a fit of undignified laughter and weeping.

“It’s all right,” Sarah said, rubbing the young woman’s back. “Shh, it’s all right.”

“Thank you—thank you so much—”

“You don’t owe me any thanks,” Sarah chided.

Lenia wiped her face. “The guards told me what you did.”

“It was nothing,” Sarah assured her. “Is your sister all right? Is the baby?”

“They’re both fine,” said Lenia, her voice still shaking. “The baby came about half an hour after the wagon arrived. Her name is Ceyrelle.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

Lenia took Sarah’s arm. “Come see.” They went deeper into the queen’s suite. From behind a closed door, Sarah heard the high-pitched cooing of female voices. Lenia rapped on the doorframe.

The door opened a few inches to reveal the face of Baroness Gannet, glowing with happiness at the birth of her great-grandchild. When she saw Sarah, she opened the door and stepped aside.

“Lovey, you have a special visitor,” she called.

Beside the large, four poster bed, Lady Jacama and Queen Petronia both sat, gazing down with rapt, enchanted expressions at the young woman lying propped on pillows, a bundled infant in the crook of her arm. Sarah could make out a wrinkled red forehead beneath a fringe of downy dark fluff.

Lady Jacama rose and came to Sarah, kissing her on each cheek.

“The guards told us what you did,” she said, her voice hushed. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It was nothing,” Sarah assured her.

Lady Jacama took Sarah’s arm and led her to the bedside.

“Alaemon,” Lady Jacama said, “here’s a special guest—it’s Queen Sarah, who sent the search party out to find you.”

The young woman had been almost asleep, and her eyes fluttered open. Alaemon and Lenia were twins, not identical, but similar enough in appearance that they might well be. Like Lenia, Alaemon was dark-haired, her frame slim, her face small and fine-featured. Both women had blue eyes, though Alaemon’s were protuberant, like Baroness Gannet’s. Lenia’s pink lips were even now turned up in a happy smile, but her sister’s mouth curved downward into a sulky pout.

Alaemon’s cold gaze fixed on Sarah’s face, and she let out a piercing shriek that made every woman in the room jump.

“A goblin!” she screamed, clutching Ceyrelle so hard the infant began to wail. “Get it away—it’ll steal my baby!”

Lady Jacama swooped in, trying to comfort and reassure her daughter, but Alaemon would have none of it: she kept screaming until Sarah was out of the room, a mortified Lenia at her side. Baroness Gannet followed behind them.

“The priestess gave her something for the pain, and to help her sleep,” the older woman said by way of apology. “I believe the posset may have contained white poppy milk. She was startled when she woke up—she didn’t know where she was. She’ll be calm soon.”

Alaemon didn’t sound calm to Sarah. Through the closed door, she could hear the new mother bawling and wailing and making an almighty fuss.

Still, Sarah opted to be politic. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “She had a long, exhausting, terrifying journey, and she came very close to giving birth on the road. I’m sure she’ll be fine once she’s slept and rested.”

Baroness Gannet nodded, satisfied, and slipped back into the room, where Alaemon’s shrieks had given way to noisy, hiccupping sobs.

“I’m so sorry.” Out in the queen’s presence chamber, Lenia could not stop apologizing. “It’s all my fault. It was far too soon for her to have company, let alone someone she’d never met before. I forgot how high-strung Alaemon can be.”

“It’s all right,” Sarah told her. “Goblins have tough hides.” She smiled. “It would take a lot more than a temper tantrum to offend me.” Lenia still seemed miserable, so Sarah told her, “Go on, go back and be with her.”

“That was unforgivable,” said Lenia, her embarrassment hardening into anger. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow, after the posset wears off, and I’m going to insist you come back so she can apologize to you. You saved her life, and she had no right treating you like that. She’s always been the most self-absorbed person. I know today was horrible for her, but that doesn’t excuse rudeness or childish outbursts.” Those last two sentences gave Sarah an idea of what the two sisters’ childhood relationship must have been like.

“It’s completely up to her,” Sarah said.

The guard who’d escorted Sarah was hovering in the background, and Lenia said, “You must be exhausted. I think we should all get some rest.”

“Certainly.” Sarah gave the young woman a hug, and Lenia embraced her in return with fierce strength: no longer honored hostess and royal guest, but friends.

(vi)

Sarah fumed all the way back to the Falcon Suite, though she kept her expression impassive. She had volunteered to go search for the travelers. Against Fayannah’s advice, she had insisted on riding beyond the crossroads, so that she could survey the western road from the hilltop. The queen’s guards had been watching all day for Alaemon’s party, but it was Sarah whose sharp eyesight had spotted the riders. Sarah was the one whose quick thinking had sent the lad back to the palace for reinforcements. Sarah’s order had brought back the torches, the blankets, the fresh horses.

_They never would have made it without me_ , she thought. _Their horses would’ve given out on them; they’d have been stranded on the road; they’d have frozen to death within two or three miles of the city wall, and their bodies wouldn’t have been found until next spring_. The anger kept her weary legs going until she reached the Falcon Suite. A warm smell of dinner wafted down the stairs, as well as the sound of childish voices. Out in the hallway, a boy and a girl played under the supervision of a handsome teenager; Sarah recognized him and the children as the trio she and Jareth had seen skating that first morning in the Queen’s Yards. Lizzie was crawling around on the floor with the fascinated children; Sarah swooped down the hall and lifted her daughter for a kiss before going in to eat.

The dining room was lit with candles, a cheerful fire burned in the hearth, and a half-dozen adults were gathered around the table, drinking wine, laughing, talking, Jareth—much to Sarah’s amazement—among them. She realized the family must have been quartered in the Falcon Suite, in the rooms across the hall from hers and Jareth’s.

“Ah, my lady queen, the epic traveler, returns from her travails.” The news must have traveled quickly around the palace.

The other adults began to rise, but Sarah made a gesture with her hands for them to stay seated. A chair had been saved for her, and she lowered into it, grateful to be off her feet, listening as the conversation resumed. Introductions were made: the children’s parents, two grandmothers, and a wizened great-uncle. Serving boys placed hot vegetable soup and bread before Sarah, which she consumed in gulping spoonsful, manners be damned. There was more hot mulled wine. Dish after dish came around, the nourishing food filling Sarah with warmth and energy, lifting her spirits. While she nibbled at the dessert of dried fruits and candied nuts, she told the others what had happened, keeping her account as brief and straightforward as possible. Jareth’s eyes told her he guessed there was more to the story than Sarah was revealing, but he waited until they were alone in their own rooms, behind closed doors, Lizzie bouncing in Sarah’s arms.

Without mincing words, Sarah told him what had happened when she went to see Alaemon’s baby.

He threw back his head and laughed. “No good deed goes unpunished, eh?”

“That stupid fucking bitch.”

Jareth chuckled and drew Sarah closer to him, kissing the top of her head. “The termagant will likely insist her niece grovel before you tomorrow,” he said. “That, at least, will be a salve on your bruised ego.”

“She damn well better grovel.” Sarah leaned into Jareth, inhaling his scent, letting her love for him and Lizzie flow through her like a balm. She opened her mouth to say more, and the whole wing of the palace heaved with a violent tremor, as if in the grip of a massive fist. It felt like an earthquake and was accompanied by an ungodly shrieking noise that sent a bolt of undiluted horror through Sarah’s heart. Lizzie wailed and hid her face in Jareth’s shoulder. His long arms tightened around both of them.

“What was _that_?” Sarah gasped when the noise and the shaking stopped. She could feel the intense, penetrating cold despite the roaring fire, a seeping evil that insinuated its way through the thick walls, the shutters, the layers of tapestries.

“The wind.” Sarah had never heard him sound so grim.

“It sounds more like a monster.” Worse than a monster—a hungry monster.

“It’s just getting started,” Jareth responded. “And it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

**To be continued…**


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 2-12-16.

_Eight_

Sarah burrowed deeper into the bedcovers, her mind adrift. She was so cold. Why was it so cold? Had the furnace broken down? Why didn’t her father fix the furnace? Then she remembered she wasn’t at home—she was at college, living in the dormitories. Maybe the heating system wasn’t working. She had to get up and go to class. Sarah groaned, reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of her bed. Surely classes would be cancelled if the heat wasn’t working.

Quiet sounds pierced the icy haze around her mind. There were voices, then a soft crackle, the fragrant scent of smoke. _It must really be bad if Dad’s starting a fire_. Power must be out. But here at the new house, they had a generator—Irene had insisted on it. Why wasn’t the generator working? Sarah hated the new house. But she was at college, in her Riley Hall dorm room. Was someone starting a fire in one of the dormitory’s fireplaces? Why could she smell the smoke all the way upstairs? She should ask Raelin—Raelin would know.

Bit by bit, warmth began to penetrate the frigid air surrounding Sarah’s bed. The crackle of wood burning grew more distinct, drawing her to the surface of wakefulness. The voices belonged to Wulfrun and Elfswhit. Sarah remembered they were in Aves. Outside the shuttered windows, wind was screaming. The storm. She tried to move, but every muscle in her body protested. Beside her, Jareth stirred, grumbling about the cold, then slid out of the bed. Sarah wiggled into the warm pocket he’d left behind and drifted back into slumber.

By the time she awoke, her bladder prodding her into full consciousness, the blazing fire and three freshly-filled braziers had warmed the room to a tolerable temperature. Still, Sarah wrapped herself in the cloak she’d draped over the counterpane and slid her feet into the fleece-lined slippers she’d left by the bed. Hunched in the cloak like an old woman, she lurched into the bathroom on protesting legs. A fire crackled in here, too, and a tub full of hot water sent steam into the air; the vaporized water congealed on the cold marble and ran in tiny trickles down to the floor. Jareth lolled in the tub, and after relieving herself, Sarah pinned up her hair, shucked off her cloak and slippers, and joined him.

“Oh, this is nice,” she sighed, sliding in up to her neck. “I hurt all over.” The long ride in the freezing wind had taken its toll, and sleeping in such a cold room had stiffened up every muscle in her body. “It’s like freaking rigor mortis.”

Jareth grinned, though his eyes were shadowed with fear. He was very pale; not even the golden glow of the firelight reflecting off the pink marble of the bathroom could put color into his face. Sarah knew he only worried about things over which he had no control, and this storm was one of them. The shrieking of the wind rose to a furious blast, and the walls of the building shook.

“I hope the place holds up,” Sarah muttered when the wind dropped. “It sounds like a category five hurricane.”

“You could always go outside for a look,” he teased.

“What, and ruin my hair?”

Jareth made a quiet laughing sound, but the look in his eyes didn’t change.

They lingered in the tub until the water grew cool—too soon, Sarah thought—then dried each other. By then, Sarah’s muscles had loosened up. She had Wulfrun and Elfswhit lace her into the warmest gown she’d brought from home: silk-lined wool over three thick petticoats. She wore her heaviest stockings and the fur-lined shoes she’d bought in Aves, and on top of it all, the fur-lined cape. She pinned up her hair beneath a smart fur hat. Lizzie was awake and had already been wrapped in a brown pelt, so that she resembled an adorable bear cub.

_I’d never have worn fur back at home_ , Sarah thought, bouncing the baby in her arms. _Not that I was waving a flag for PETA, but it seemed so cruel and frivolous. Now I can’t imagine living without it—certainly not in weather like this_.

Across the hallway, breakfast was being served, everyone wrapped in cloaks and sitting as close to the fire as possible. In the hallway and in the rooms where no fires burned, the cold seared the lungs and made the eyes water. Sarah accepted hot herbal tea and toasted bread, trying to eat before the food cooled off. Between bites, she spooned a porridge of mashed-up warm grains into Lizzie’s mouth. Conversation among the adults came in fits and starts, pausing every time the wind shook the building. For the children’s sake, the adults were trying to behave as though the storm was nothing out of the ordinary, but the two youngsters weren’t fooled. They sat near the fire, not speaking and searching their parents’ faces with anxious expressions.

After the meal, Sarah didn’t quite know what to do with herself—gossip she’d overheard the previous day told her the library, museum, and other places of interest would be closed to conserve fuel; only the conservatory would remain heated, to protect the musical instruments. She still had the stack of books in her room, several of them unread, and she thought it would be a good day to curl up in a chair by the fire with a pot of hot tea. She had plenty of paper and ink at her disposal, so perhaps she could spend some time drawing with Lizzie. But before those plans could translate into action, Lenia appeared, bundled into an outdoor cloak instead of her stylish indoor cape. A fur hat protected her head, and her hands were tucked into a muff.

“The queen’s holding a salon,” she said, “and invited you to come and bring your daughter.” As she spoke, her breath puffed out: the heat from the dining room fire didn’t reach as far as the doorway.

“I’d be honored,” said Sarah. “Let me fetch my cloak.”

Right away, she recognized the invitation to the salon as a mark of prestige; it seemed Sarah had risen high in the queen’s estimation. Smiles and nods greeted Sarah as she came through the door. This was one of Petronia’s smaller sitting rooms—easier to heat—the only two windows securely covered. The southern wing of the palace was spared the brunt of the gale. A blazing fire, braziers full of hot coals, and dozens of candles—some in candelabras, others in glass lanterns—provided light and warmth. The women on the comfortable chairs and settees wore warm gowns and indoor capes. In an unobtrusive corner, a pair of women in blue linen gowns provided soft music on stringed instruments. Sarah was led to a plush, embroidered chair near Queen Petronia and settled in with much fussing.

On the queen’s other side sat Alaemon, propped on pillows in a comfortable chaise lounge, the baby near her breast. She appeared more alert and less sulky than she had the previous evening.

As soon as Sarah was seated, the queen gave her niece a hard stare, full of meaning.

“I owe you an apology, Your Majesty,” said the new mother, her expression the very image of contrition, but a cool edge in her voice told a different story. “I also owe you a debt of gratitude for coming to find my party yesterday.”

Sarah kept her body relaxed, her face a study in magnanimity. With her best Gallic shrug, she smiled and said, “As long as everyone’s safe, that’s what matters.” Summoning all her charm, she added, “This is my daughter, Elisabeth. You see, I don’t need to steal your baby, because I have one of my own.”

As if on cue, all the women in the room laughed, a tittering, artificial sound. Petronia smiled, mollified, now that diplomacy had been restored.

A pretty maid circulated with hot tea and delicacies to nibble. Sarah’s gaze made a quick circuit of the room. In addition to the queen, Alaemon, and Lenia, there sat Lady Jacama, on the chair nearest Alaemon, making gooey faces at her new granddaughter. On the other side of Sarah, Lenia sat with Baroness Gannet, reviewing sheets of paper at a small table. Sarah could see a pattern for a gown, a sketch showing the layout of a house, and the edge of something that appeared to be a menu. Despite the storm, plans for the double wedding were proceeding apace.

On the opposite side of the room, furthest from the fire, sat a cluster of a half-dozen ladies-in-waiting, among them Lady Vibiana, now installed in her new position. An air of sullen rebelliousness vibrated around her like an invisible nimbus. The women were embroidering some kind of large cloth—a tapestry, perhaps—each one of them working on a different portion. Sarah couldn’t make out the design.

Seated in her large chair, Petronia held a pair of very thin knitting needles, her fingers moving with the swift dexterity of long practice, producing a panel of something cream-colored. Sarah didn’t have to see the finished product to know the queen was knitting baby clothes. Perhaps her ladies were preparing a decorative wall hanging for the royal nursery. Not for the first time, Sarah wondered what would become of poor Princess Cassina, whom she hadn’t seen since the first introduction to Petronia, once the baby was born. The queen kept her first child tucked well out of sight. Perhaps the luckless princess would be sent off to some royal estate in the country, where she would live out her life in posh obscurity.

“This is my wedding gown,” said Lenia, lifting the sketch and showing it to Sarah, another of those rococo designs so favored by the noblewomen of Aves.

“It’s lovely,” Sarah praised, though she personally thought the thing overdone, with its multitude of ruffles and swags and endless yards of trim—even more ridiculous than Sarah’s gown for the coronation. “What will the colors be like?”

“Purple, green, and silver,” Lenia told her.

An unlikely combination, Sarah thought, but she made a noise of approval nevertheless.

“Is the greenhouse being kept warm?” Lady Jacama fretted. “A maiden on her wedding day should have roses in her hair. This cold is going to kill them.”

“No need to worry,” Petronia smiled. “There’ll be all the flowers you could want.”

Sarah wondered how many people in the palace would be subjected to unnecessary cold so that Lenia would have her roses.

“And jewels,” Petronia went on, as her knitting needles flashed their way through the creamy yarn, as fine as darning thread. “Perhaps tomorrow we’ll open the treasury, and you can choose whichever jewelry you please.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lenia responded, sweet as honey.

Eyes on the sketch of the gown, Baroness Gannet asked, “Will there be enough time to have all those pearls embroidered?”

“Every seamstress in the palace is working on it,” Petronia assured her.

The baroness shifted her attention to the papers showing the layout of the house. “Confound this storm,” she sighed, rustling through the sheets of parchment. “We won’t get the furnishings in until after the Pax Deorum is lifted.”

“There’s no rush,” said Petronia. “Lenia and Prince Cerastis can live here until the house is ready.” She beamed a smile at Lenia. “I’m more than happy to have you stay in the palace for a while longer.”

Lenia preened. She might not be happy about the wedding, Sarah thought, but nevertheless she was basking in the attention. Trying not to be too obvious, Sarah scrutinized Lenia’s body language. The young woman held her head up, shoulders back, conferring with her grandmother, more animated than Sarah would have expected. Perhaps Lenia had decided to present a brave face and make the best of a difficult situation.

_It’s not like she has a lot of other options_ , Sarah thought. But then her gaze flicked sideways for a moment, taking in Alaemon’s reaction to all this. Somehow it didn’t surprise her to see the young mother’s face twisted into an expression of undiluted jealousy. And no wonder—Alaemon had been married in the reign of the late Queen Eucissa, when the Tinamoteans still had been an upstart clade. Now that the family’s power was entrenched, Lenia was reaping the benefits—a far more prestigious marriage, a more extravagant wedding, a new home in the Queen’s Yards, a position in society far closer to the center of real power. Sarah guessed these honors were fueling the fire of a long-standing sibling rivalry.

If that were true, Lenia wouldn’t want to show her sister any emotional state other than smug, enthusiastic gladness. No matter what it cost, she wouldn’t want Alaemon to guess at her misery. And how it must hurt—Alaemon may have been rusticated to the hinterlands by the old queen, but she was married to a husband who clearly loved her, and she’d just given birth to a beautiful baby daughter, the result of genuine passion and not dutiful coupling. An arranged marriage was no easy thing, but Lenia’s pride would keep her from succumbing to despair. Alaemon’s envy might be Lenia’s only consolation.

Sarah wondered if any of these women—Petronia, Gannet, Jacama—knew about Lenia’s affair with the young dancer. She wondered, too, about the duration of the relationship—was it a longstanding love, or a more recent amour? She thought of how Lenia had danced with so many different partners the night of the coronation ball—very clever, concealing her true interest among all the other men so that nobody could be sure, nobody would know. Sarah doubted if Lenia had been a virgin before the redhead—her sexual behavior had been too assured—but it might have been their first time together. How had they met, and for how long had their passion been smoldering before it caught alight?

Whatever the particulars, Sarah thought, Lenia had to have known the romance was destined for heartbreak. There was no way her family and the queen would ever permit her to marry an Estridian. Sarah’s gaze flicked again to the queen, whose figure had begun to assume the unmistakable contours of maternity. Petronia’s eyes focused for a moment on her knitting, a secret smile at the corners of her mouth. She must be delaying the official proclamation until she felt confident in the strength and health of the developing fetus; she wouldn’t risk an announcement while there was a possibility of miscarriage. The further the pregnancy progressed, the better the chances of the neonate’s survival. Of course, Petronia couldn’t forestall the announcement indefinitely—and in the meanwhile, she reveled in dropping hints, to keep speculation buzzing—her changing body would declare its own news.

At the other side of the room, one of the ladies-in-waiting stood up and left the room, allowing Sarah to get a better look at the embroidery project. The fabric was robin’s egg blue, the ubiquitous color of the royal palace, and in the pattern, Sarah detected the great eagle of Aves, embroidered over and over in gold thread and set in among swirling coils of something that might be vines. The pattern also included owls stitched in silver, symbol of the Clade Tinamotus. Sarah recalled seeing silver owls embroidered on the ornate garb worn by King Tylas. Her goblin gaze focused on the swirling coils, which were stitched in green and purple. Those weren’t vines, Sarah realized. They were snakes. The green and purple serpent was the symbol of Varan. The wall hanging must be destined for Lenia’s new home with Prince Cerastis—given the size of the thing, it would almost certainly occupy pride of place, perhaps in their great hall, symbolizing the three-way union: the Clade Tinamotus with the royal families of Aves and Varan.

And Lady Vibiana was compelled to work on it, forced to craft, stitch by stich, the physical emblem of her own family’s fall from power. No wonder her mouth was compressed into such a hard line. Petronia glanced over at the younger woman, fairly gloating at her discomfiture. Sarah knew politics was a dirty business, but the queen’s pointed cruelty still took her aback.

The arrival of a guard broke some of the bitchy tension in the room. A small girl was at her side, and Sarah went rigid all over at the sight of the child: one of the two siblings from her visions, the girl who’d been fathered by King Tylas.

(ii)

Lady Jacama was the first one on her feet, sweeping over to welcome the new arrival. The girl had been dressed in an elegant brocade frock, topped with a fur-trimmed cape. She was like a female clone of Tylas: the tangle of black curls, the white skin, the pale gray eyes, the sensuous mouth. She trailed alongside Jacama, preening with childish self-importance.

Lady Jacama introduced the girl to the queen. “Your majesty, may I present my niece, Kosma,” she beamed. “She and her brother have been living on Alaemon’s farm.” Jacama discreetly edited out the girl’s paternity.

Kosma dropped an adorable curtsey, her small head held high.

Petronia was all sugar and honey with the girl. “Welcome to Phoebetria, Kosma,” she said. “I only wish you were visiting under less worrying circumstances.”

Kosma turned her unsettling rainwater eyes to Alaemon and the newborn girl. “I once dreamed about a baby wrapped in a blanket of snow.”

Queen Petronia made a noise of approval. “Did you?” she asked, boosting the girl into her strong arms and settling her on her lap, a gesture more tender and maternal than Sarah would have expected. She realized Petronia was looking forward to the birth of her own child for more than dynastic reasons. “Well, Alaemon’s baby _was_ born during a snowstorm. When did you have this dream?”

“At Samhain last.”

“You do know the veils between the worlds are very thin at Samhain, don’t you?”

“Of course,” the girl responded. “But I have dreams all the time.”

The quiet conversations in the room had ceased as everyone listened to the little girl. Only the music played on.

“Do you see things before they happen?” asked Petronia.

“Mmm-hmm,” Kosma nodded. She pointed straight at Sarah. “I saw her, too.”

Now a dozen heads swiveled around to stare at Sarah.

Petronia set the girl on her feet. “This is Sarah, Queen of the Goblins. She’s our guest here, for the coronation.”

Kosma bobbed another curtsey.

“When did you see Queen Sarah in your dreams?” Petronia asked, returning the child to her lap. Sarah’s heart clenched in her chest. What secrets would this sinister child reveal?

“That was near Samhain, too,” Kosma responded. “I always thought goblins would be horribly ugly, like Mephitis, but the Queen of the Goblins is beautiful. And it wasn’t a dream. I looked in a mirror, and I saw her face looking back at me, with eyes like emeralds.”

Keeping her voice light, Sarah said, “It was an eventful Samhain, then.” She shifted Lizzie so that Kosma could see the baby. “Look, I have a daughter, too. She’s called Elisabeth.”

Petronia asked, “Who is Mephitis?”

In a weary tone, Alaemon provided, “Oh, one of our servants, a hideous thing. He should be working in a peat bog or a salt plain. Can we leave him here in the city, Mother?”

“Yes, of course,” Lady Jacama responded, as if consigning another sentient being to a virtual death sentence was of no consequence whatsoever.

“Nooo,” Kosma wailed. “I like Mephitis; he makes me and Ochen laugh.” Ochen must be Kosma’s older brother.

Queen Petronia bounced the girl and said, “You’re quite a gifted child, to have so many dreams and visions.”

“It’s just a child’s imagination,” Alaemon interjected.

“That’s how magic often first manifests,” Lenia countered. “Remember when we were little, and I used to dream about things before they happened?”

Alaemon didn’t answer: she looked down at her baby with that sulky expression, and Sarah had a sudden rush of comprehension. No wonder Alaemon was jealous of her sister—Lenia had magical ability. Alaemon didn’t. And Lenia was reminding her of this.

Eager to steer the conversation away from herself, Sarah remarked, “Magic is very strong in the Clade Tinamotus.” A little flattery wouldn’t hurt, either.

Baroness Gannet nodded, “Yes, Kosma’s magic would have had to come through her father’s blood.”

It was on the tip of Sarah’s tongue to ask about Tylas, but another moment of insight stopped the question. The men of Aves had no magical ability. They must be genetic “carriers,” able to pass the ability to a daughter but not a son, able to carry magic in their blood but never to manifest it themselves.

Petronia was playing with Kosma’s silky black curls. She asked the girl, “Wouldn’t you like to live here in the city and become a priestess?”

Kosma’s mouth fell open. “Really?” she squeaked, her expression awestruck.

“You need to have powerful magic to serve the Goddess,” Petronia told her. “When the Pax Deorum is lifted, the temple priestesses can test your abilities. You only need to scry in a mirror or a special pool of water, and they’ll ask about what you see. It’s not frightening at all.”

Kosma glanced over at Alaemon, the principal female authority figure in her life. But even a child would know that the queen’s wishes would supersede those of everyone else. Alaemon jerked her head in an irritated nod of assent.

“As long as you’re in the city, visiting us, we might as well look into it,” said Petronia. She smiled at Baroness Gannet. “Arrange a trial at the temple, would you?”

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty.” Baroness Gannet’s voice rippled out, alive with excitement. So Baroness Gannet had some connection with the temple priestesses, Sarah noted.

“Could I be a priestess, truly?” Kosma asked, quivering at the prospect.

“If you have the potential,” Petronia told her. “You have to work hard and study hard and live a life devoted to the Goddess, but who knows how far you might rise in Her service. Why, you might even become High Priestess!”

The ladies in the room exchanged lightning-fast glances. Lady Jacama was beaming with pride, while Baroness Gannet’s prominent eyes glittered with ambition.

_High priestess!_ Sarah thought. Well, she had to give Petronia credit for strategic planning—if Kosma did indeed become a priestess and rise within the sisterhood, that would put yet another member of the Clade Tinamotus in a position of power and authority.

_And it’s not because Petronia loves them so much or thinks they’re awesome_ , Sarah’s internal monologue continued. _It’s because all their status comes directly from her. The Estridians became so entrenched that they developed their own patronage networks, their own cadre of women in positions of power. The Tinamoteans are new enough to still need the queen’s support_.

She glanced again at the little girl, who despite her hauteur was entirely too young and innocent to realize her own role as pawn in the ongoing power play between the two clans. Kosma wouldn’t understand what being a priestess would entail or what sacrifices a life in holy service would require. By the time she was old enough to rebel, the course of her future would be set. Sarah’s gaze then went to the settee where Baroness Gannet, Lady Jacama, and Lenia sat conferring in whispers, their brunette heads tipped together, an air of expectation as pungent as perfume hovering about them: mother, daughter, granddaughter, united in the single-minded ambition of advancing their family’s fortunes.

And Sarah couldn’t help noticing Alaemon, on the queen’s other side, pointedly excluded from this conference, staring at her sister with ill-tempered, covetous eyes.

(iii)

By the time Sarah returned to the Falcon Suite, another invitation had arrived. The blizzard continued to rage outside the palace, and with all the windows covered, a gloomy twilight prevailed. Nature’s wrath seemed to have prompted a need for community, and Queen Inula had invited the goblin monarchs to have lunch in her suite.

Sarah was only too happy to accept, and without seeking Inula’s approval, she extended the invitation to the family quartered across the hallway. The prospect of spending a few hours with people who had no particular political ambition was welcome after a morning in the stultifying confines of Petronia’s salon.

Sarah kept turning over and over in her mind the encounter with the king’s natural daughter. Even with the Pax Deorum in effect, Kosma’s magical potential was plain to see. This did not explain, however, why this child should have any kind of affinity with Sarah, a woman who lived in another kingdom and whom she’d never met until that day. Sarah pondered the possible reasons for the connection. Her first vision of the girl had come the morning they’d left for Aves; Kosma was the cousin of a woman Sarah had befriended; Kosma had been in the party saved by Sarah’s quick thinking. Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual for Sarah to have had a premonitory vision that included the child. But still, something about the whole situation didn’t add up, and it left Sarah with a nagging sense of worry.

Their arrival in the northeast wing was greeted with laughter and much good-natured noise. The parlor where a week earlier Sarah had sat chatting with Queen Inula had been transformed: a substantive fire blazed and braziers had been set up at intervals to provide additional warmth in the further corners of the room. With the windows covered, the space seemed cramped and small, but that was an illusion. Half the children in the city appeared to be here: laughing, playing, chasing each other around the room under the watchful eyes of the adults. A long table had been set up against one wall, and serving boys were setting out food and beverages.

Within moments, Jareth and Sarah had been offered comfortable chairs near the fireplace. The two children from the Queen’s Yards wanted to play with Lizzie, so Sarah unwrapped the baby from her pelt and let her crawl around on the floor with the other toddlers. Almost right away, a tow-haired boy of about eighteen months rolled a ball across the floor to Lizzie; she caught the ball and with remarkable hand-eye coordination for one so young, pushed it back to him. He returned the toy to her with an adorably baffled expression, as if not understanding why Lizzie did not want his gift.

From her seat near Sarah, Marsilea broke into laughter at her son’s thwarted efforts. “Oh, Delonix is such a little gentleman,” she said. “Your daughter is breaking his heart.”

Marsilea’s husband Agrostis was on the settee next to her, dressed warmly and wrapped in an indoor cloak, like many of the adults. He grinned, watching the two children play, aquamarine eyes fond with love as he observed his son. Sarah thought the little boy would one day grow into a handsome devil, like his father. Next to Jareth, she ranked Agrostis as the best-looking man of the royal families. _A distant second place_ , she thought, smiling.

A gust of wind shook the walls. In this part of the palace, the wind didn’t shriek: it groaned and thundered, and for a few moments, Sarah felt as though an enormous freight train were roaring through the room. Conversations faltered, heads turning toward the covered windows, as if envisioning the maelstrom outside. A draft of frigid wind blew down the chimney, sending forth a shower of red sparks and hot coals. King Rumex, sitting nearest the fireplace, hastened to scoop up the fiery missiles with a metal shovel and throw them back into the pile of burning logs.

After the wind dropped back to a less intimidating volume, the children’s play and the adult conversations resumed, though less carefree, more guarded.

“It’s quite dreadful, isn’t it?” Queen Inula murmured, drawing her cloak more snugly about herself. “I’m in five layers, and I feel as though I simply can’t get warm.”

Sarah didn’t mention that here in the northeast wing, the fury of the storm was more obvious.

Marsilea said, “How long is this supposed to go on? Does anyone have any idea?”

Sarah told her, “Lady Jacama says the last storm this bad lasted four days.”

“Ugh,” Marsilea shuddered. “Three more days of this?”

King Rumex, eyes blinking, asked, “Will the supplies of food and fuel last? After all, the entire kingdom is in the palace now, isn’t it?”

Queen Inula said, “I can’t imagine that supplies for the winter weren’t already laid in. It’s not as though harsh winters in Aves are an unknown thing. And extras must have been brought in for the coronation. I’m less worried about food than firewood. Supplies are stored here, but much comes in from the countryside all during the winter.”

Sarah told them, “There’s entire storerooms stockpiled with firewood—one of the guards told me yesterday. And the people who came into the city brought a lot of their own food and fuel with them.”

Agrostis said, “Perhaps, but there are many more people in the palace than usual, and the fires need to be burning all day. Look how much wood we’ve gone through in just in this room, and it’s scarcely taking the edge off the cold.”

Marsilea said, “And people might be burning fires all night, too.”

“That’s a waste,” Sarah opined. “Jareth and I banked ours last night. It was freezing this morning, but at least we saved some firewood.”

In a low voice, Queen Inula said, “I’d guarantee Petronia’s room is kept toasty, around the sundial.”

Everyone laughed at that, and Sarah put in, “This isn’t stopping the wedding plans, I can tell you that. You’d think the storm wasn’t even happening.”

King Rumex said, “She won’t miss an opportunity to flaunt her new alliance, not while she has a captive audience.”

A quiet lull followed that opinion, and Sarah wondered if they were all thinking of Lenia, about the marriage that had been arranged for her without her consent or even her prior knowledge. A moment later, another blast of wind rocked the building.

With a shudder, Marsilea said, “Every time the wind blows like that, I feel like the roof will be torn off.”

“Don’t worry,” said Inula, putting a comforting arm around her daughter-in-law. “This palace is built to withstand the most horrific winters in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I’m not used to it,” Marsilea fretted. “It’s far more temperate at home.”

“It is unsettling,” said Agrostis. “Sometimes I imagine I hear voices in the wind. It’s like the storm is alive.”

Jareth, who’d been listening to the conversation without saying anything, started slightly, and he glanced at Sarah with a look in his eyes that filled her with inexplicable dread.

(iv)

Lunch was warm and filling: soups, stews, breads, and desserts of baked fruit. There was hot mulled wine for the adults, hot spiced cider for the children. Everyone ate with gusto, more to keep warm than to alleviate hunger. By the time the meal ended, the fire and braziers had succeeded in warming the room to a comfortable degree. Children curled up in chairs and on settees to nap, and the adults, wrapped in their cloaks, began to doze.

Sarah had never been one for napping—she’d found that sleeping during the day made it impossible to sleep at night, and as a college student, she’d also run the risk of sleeping right through her afternoon classes. At Oneida, she’d discovered a comfortable seat in a quiet library carrel, where she could cat-nap between classes if she wanted, but she’d avoided lying down unless she was sick.

And now, as a goblin, she felt even less inclined to sleep. What she craved at the moment was exercise, so got to her feet, brushing crumbs off her skirt. Jareth was staring into the fire, Lizzie in his lap; she caught his eye and inclined her head toward the doorway. He nodded.

A moment later, a slim figure in a burgundy velvet gown was at Sarah’s side.

“Where are you going?” murmured Marsilea.

“Just for a stroll,” Sarah told her. “Not far.” She put on her hat and gloves, pulling the cloak more snugly about herself.

“I’ll come with you.” Marsilea picked up her own outerwear before joining Sarah in the corridor outside. “By the gods, it’s cold.”

They didn’t linger. Sarah knew exactly where she was going, and when she entered a service corridor through a concealed door in the paneling of an unused parlor, Marsilea squeaked with surprise.

“What’s this?” she whispered.

“Service corridor,” Sarah hissed.

Marsilea muffled a giggle, and the two crept through the corridor on tiptoe, like children on Christmas Eve. Sarah paused long enough to show Marsilea one of the peep-holes, but otherwise they didn’t waste time—the service corridors felt like the inside of a deep freezer. From behind doors came the sounds of conversations: the northeast and north wings were full of people now. Most of the farmers who’d come in from the countryside were being quartered in the north wing, and were congregating in parlors and dining rooms, sharing food and conversation, keeping warm. Twice Sarah and Marsilea were obliged to duck into unoccupied rooms when they heard servants approaching, but otherwise, the stone corridors were empty.

At last, the two women emerged into a corridor Sarah remembered from her first morning in the palace, when she and Jareth had come in by the wrong entrance. With her unerring goblin sense of direction, she led Marsilea down the corridor and up a flight of steps. A pair of guards was on duty, and they seemed amazed to see the two royal guests.

Without waiting for questions, Sarah announced, “We’re here to view the conditions in the Summer Hall.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” one of the women said, and the guards stepped aside.

The doorway opened into the gallery that overlooked the Summer Hall. Sarah motioned Marsilea to the balcony, and they looked down, observing the activity in the vast space. An enormous fire blazed in the fireplace, though from where the two women stood, the heat could not be felt. A number of braziers provided additional warmth. The room looked like an army camp, with dozens of wooden pallets set up, covered with bedding. Sarah was pleased to see the people had been provided with ample bedding, and the pallets would raise them off the marble floor. Candles lit the room.

It looked as though the salt miners and peat boggers had finished their lunch. Most of the adults sat hunched around the fireplace, talking amongst themselves, hands wrapped around mugs of hot beverages. Sarah observed a clear distinction among the outcasts: the smaller group of peat boggers kept apart from the large group of salt miners.

Elsewhere in the room, children played. Here in the north wing, the full fury of the storm was inescapable, each blast of wind shaking the walls. The people of the Outer Boulevard seemed impervious to the noise, and Sarah guessed they must experience a lot worse during ordinary storms each winter, to say nothing of their outdoor working conditions the rest of the year. At least they were safe within stone walls now and not riding out the blizzard in those dilapidated huts.

Having satisfied herself that the workers were all right and that Petronia had kept her promise, Sarah turned back. Nobody in the Summer Hall had observed the presence of the two women in the gallery. She and Marsilea retraced their footsteps, past the guards’ checkpoint and down the steps, back to where they could access the service corridors again.

“I had to be sure they’re comfortable, warm, and fed,” Sarah said. “I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it myself.”

“Everyone’s talking about what you did,” Marsilea told her. “How you stood up to Petronia. That took courage.”

Sarah made a self-deprecating gesture. “I actually made a complete hash of it,” she admitted. “Lenia was the one who did the persuading.”

“Still. It was your idea. Would Lenia have thought of those people on her own?”

“Maybe not,” Sarah hedged. She sighed. “We have such luxury here, and the people in the Outer Boulevard live in the most disgraceful circumstances. Getting them sheltered during the storm was the least I could do.”

Marsilea made a noise of agreement. “Has Lenia talked to you at all? About her betrothal?”

“Only to say it was a complete surprise to her,” Sarah responded.

“She’s none too happy about it; you can see that.”

“Who can blame her?” asked Sarah. “But she was sitting making plans with her mother and grandmother today, so she seems to have accepted it.”

“What else can she do?” asked Marsilea. “Mount a protest? Petronia would have the skin off her back.”

“It looks like Lenia’s doing her best to stay positive. She’s faring better than I would.”

“Not that Prince Cerastis is a horrible person, and Lenia will have every advantage in the marriage, but he seems so much younger than her.”

“I don’t even know how old Lenia is, let alone Cerastis,” Sarah responded.

“I can’t imagine marrying someone I didn’t love,” said Marsilea with a little shudder.

“Me neither,” said Sarah. “How did you meet Agrostis?”

A lovely smile warmed Marsilea’s red-nosed face. “I’m a musician,” she said. “I play the siku—it’s a set of pipes. My ensemble was invited to the capital city to play in the summer flower festival.” Her honey-brown eyes lit up, and she squeezed Sarah’s arm. “You and King Jareth should come visit us this year! The flower festival is so beautiful. I think you’d love it.”

“I’d enjoy that,” Sarah told her. Jareth might not, but Sarah would persuade him. “So, that’s how you met Agrostis?”

“He came around with the king and queen to greet all the players. At the feast afterwards, he sought me out and complimented my playing. My parents had come for the festival, and he asked them if he could start courting me. It was such a surprise, because Agrostis is Rumex and Inula’s only child—I would have expected them to make a political match for him. My mother is the headwoman of our village, but that’s hardly an alliance.” Marsilea pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and blew her nose. “Excuse me,” she said. “The cold air makes my nose run.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sarah laughed.

“I stayed on in the city after the festival, and by midwinter, Agrostis and I were betrothed. We were married the following midsummer, a year to the day after we first met.”

“That’s so romantic,” Sarah told her. Before Marsilea could ask how Jareth and Sarah had met, Sarah said, “I had no idea you were a musician.”

“Do you think I’d make a public proclamation?” exclaimed Marsilea. “Look how Petronia put Jareth on the spot. I play well, but there’s no way I could compete with the musicians of Aves. They’re the best there is.”

The women had reached the junction of two corridors, and Sarah took the one that would return them to the northeast wing.

Sarah said, “I hate not being able to see outside. It’s making me claustrophobic. If the wind wasn’t so bad, I’d go up to the tall watchtower and see what conditions are like outside.”

“I thought the tower was closed off?” Marsilea frowned.

“Can you keep a secret?” asked Sarah. When Marsilea nodded, Sarah told her, “Jareth and I found the entrance. It’s hidden in a disused service corridor. The view is spectacular.”

“I’ve heard Queen Petronia’s going to have it torn down as soon as the weather improves. She hates it.”

“Why?” asked Sarah.

“It’s where she and her first husband…” Marsilea trailed off. “Did Inula tell you about him? Ulan?”

“A little,” Sarah admitted.

“Well, Petronia didn’t like him very much. After five years of marriage, there hadn’t been any signs of children, and when old Queen Eucissa asked, it turned out Ulan and Petronia weren’t… they weren’t doing anything. Very much. Or very often.”

“I see,” Sarah nodded.

“Inula thinks Ulan must’ve been intimidated by Petronia. Queen Eucissa may have thought they needed more privacy, and she suggested the tower. Petronia didn’t like it because it was a guard’s room, very spare. She was a royal princess, used to the best of everything.”

“True enough,” Sarah nodded. “That’s exactly what the room is—a lookout, with just enough room for three or four plain pieces of furniture. If Ulan was that self-conscious, I’m surprised Queen Eucissa didn’t order the place to be redecorated, turn it into a romantic little love nest.”

“That was part of the problem,” said Marsilea. She lowered her voice. “Ulan didn’t want it posh and comfortable. He wanted it rough. He liked it because… well, because he could…” Marsilea’s face turned bright pink, which made her nose look like a cherry atop of a dish of strawberry ice cream. “He liked to pretend Petronia was his prisoner and—well, you can imagine the rest.”

“Aah,” Sarah nodded, struggling to ward off the visual of an unwilling Petronia playing kinky sex games. She’d never be able to keep a straight face around the queen again. “She must have found that humiliating.”

“But the change of scenery worked because Petronia was pregnant within the year. And when Cassina turned out the way she is, Petronia blamed Ulan—and Queen Eucissa. You can see why she’d hate that tower.”

“She probably hopes it’ll blow down in this gale,” Sarah said with a short laugh. Now she didn’t feel so chagrined about her night up there with Jareth. She remembered the eerie sensation of someone else in the room, and how when she’d gone up there by herself, she’d been unable to keep her thoughts focused. Perhaps Ulan’s unhappy ghost haunted the tower room, even in death lusting for a woman who had never wanted him.

Sarah thought of Queen Inula’s brief description of Ulan as a kindly man who had loved books and learning, but this was a side of him that Inula had been too discreet to divulge. And Sarah could only imagine how degrading it would have been for Petronia to be compelled to indulge her husband in his less savory sexual fantasies. The anecdote also gave Sarah a glimpse of how Petronia must have been subject to the will of the old queen. _That’s a pretty sick mother-daughter relationship_.

“No wonder she hates the Clade Estrida,” Sarah said out loud.

“I think in her mind, the Estridians are so tied up with her memories of her mother that she doesn’t want anything to do with them. It’s why she married a Tinamotean as soon as she could. Eucissa herself was an Estridian—there are about eight branches of the family, and there had been some marriage three or four generations back. Petronia’s severing all ties with them. If this baby—” Marsilea clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with dismay.

Sarah laughed. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the worst-kept secret at court right now. She was knitting baby clothes this morning.”

Marsilea exhaled a shaky breath. “Oh, thank goodness! We’re not supposed to say anything about it until an official announcement is made. I’ll be causing a diplomatic incident.”

“I’d never rat you out,” Sarah smiled. They’d reached the correct door in the northeast wing, and Sarah let them into the deserted parlor, carefully pushing shut the door in the paneling. Marsilea marveled at how well the lines of the door blended into the wall.

Sarah finished Marsilea’s interrupted stream of thought. “The Tinamoteans must be praying for a healthy baby girl,” she said. “That will solidify their power. The Estridians are on their way out—they must recognize that. Look how Petronia’s been snubbing her own niece.”

Marsilea hissed, “We’ve heard rumors that if she can’t have another baby, she’s going to change the line of succession into the king’s family.”

Sarah gawped at her. “Can she do that?”

“The High Council would need to vote on it, and they’re all women who’ve been appointed by Petronia.”

“But wouldn’t she need a plausible reason? To disinherit her younger sister?” Sarah had no idea how the law worked in Aves, but royal successions were the kind of thing many societies had gone to war over.

“We’ve heard rumors her councilors are looking into possibilities. It might be why Lady Vibiana’s being kept here—as a kind of hostage. But this is all speculation, and it’ll be moot anyway if the baby’s born healthy. And female, of course. A son couldn’t inherit.”

Sarah’s mind was awhirl at this revelation. The marriage between Lenia and Prince Cerastis made a sudden new, dynastic sense. It wasn’t just to cement the alliance with the kingdom of Varan—it was to give Lenia the added status of a royal spouse. King Tylas couldn’t inherit the throne if Petronia died before him—rule would pass to his sister, Lady Jacama, and from her to her two daughters—Alaemon and Lenia. Sarah had never asked which of the twins was the elder, but instinct told her it must be Lenia, otherwise Alaemon would not have been permitted to marry an obscure man from the country. Perhaps this explained why Lenia had remained unwed—her mother and grandmother had been holding the diplomatic card to their vests until it could be played to the clade’s best advantage.

_If that’s true_ , Sarah thought, _all this scheming has been going on for a while—way back before Eucissa died_.

The cold of the empty parlor discouraged lingering, and the two women left, hurrying to the firelit sitting room. Everyone had woken from their naps, the adults drinking more hot wine and talking quietly, watching as the children played. Sarah grinned at the sight of Agrostis down on the floor, long legs splayed out in front of him, playing with Lizzie and his son Delonix. Queen Inula and King Rumex were off in a corner by themselves, engaged in a hushed and serious-looking conversation. The big chairs by the fireplace all were empty. Jareth was nowhere to be seen.

(v)

“What is _that_?”

Jareth looked up from his seat by the fireplace in their suite, his mouth curling into a lazy grin. His mismatched eyes held a satisfied gleam. He handed the scroll over to Sarah. “Mind you don’t tear it.”

Sarah set the thing on the nearest table; holding it with great care by the edges, she unrolled it—superb quality vellum, by the feel and scent and weight of it. Her scholar’s eyes scanned the lines of black-inked lettering, but she could not make sense of the language. She glanced up at Jareth.

“Where did you ever find this, and what is it?”

“It’s an account of the last great blizzard, ‘black-glass storms,’ as they’re known, from an eyewitness who lived through it.”

Sarah lifted her hands away from the vellum, awestruck and alarmed. “This is _five thousand years old_?”

Jareth’s wonderful laugh rang out. “Think about it,” he teased.

“It’s a copy, not the original, then.”

“The original is under glass in the antiquities collection. There’s a translation into the modern language of Aves somewhere in that pointless showpiece of a library, but translations rarely capture the essence of the original.”

Sarah frowned. “So how can we all understand each other? How have I always been able to understand you?” She dropped into a chair. “God, I can’t believe I’m just asking this question now. French, German, Latin. I always kicked ass at other languages. You’d think this would’ve occurred to me sooner.”

“We all have our days, Sarah.”

“Oh, don’t be so damned smug.” She snapped her fingers. “Magic. That’s how everyone can understand each other. If it weren’t for the Pax Deorum, I could use magic to translate this. The copy must have been made a long time ago, then.”

“It’s two thousand years old. Aves switched to its modern alphabet a few centuries later.”

“Is that where you were this afternoon?” asked Sarah. “Robbing the antiquities collection?”

“I prefer to think of it as a temporary loan.”

“So what does it say about the last storm?” As if to punctuate her question, a savage blast of wind shook the walls.

“It lasted four days, give or take twelve hours. Nobody thought to evacuate the countryside, and almost everyone outside the city perished. Phoebetria was buried up to the palace walls.” Jareth said all this with a kind of grim relish.

“So we’re in for four more days of this?”

“We’re still not into the worst of it. The storm grew more ferocious as it went along. Even inside the city, people froze to death because they hadn’t stockpiled enough wood. People outside the palace died when their roofs collapsed and buried them alive under the snow.”

“Well, that inspires me with confidence,” Sarah shuddered. So she’d been right to insist that everyone take shelter in the palace.

“Then there were the people who took their own lives because of the wind.”

“The wind?” Sarah wasn’t sure if she’d heard Jareth correctly. “Why’d that make them commit suicide?”

“Because they thought they heard voices.”

Sarah remembered Agrostis saying he felt like he could hear voices in the wind.

“And the voices drove them mad?” she asked.

Jareth said, “They were so certain they heard voices that they threw themselves outside into the storm. They—”

Sarah watched Jareth’s lips move as he spoke, but his voice was swallowed up by the next shrieking blast of wind, so loud that she could hear nothing else. The gust sounded to Sarah like a vicious beast intent on devouring everyone and everything inside the palace.

Her fear must have shown on her face, because Jareth drew her into his arms, holding her against him until the furious gust had abated.

“It’s going to be a long four days,” Sarah moaned.

(vi)

“Sarah, I am not wearing that _thing_ —not to bed, not anywhere.”

“You’ll freeze.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Oh, come on. Nobody’s going to see it but us.”

“It’s beneath my dignity.”

Sarah laughed. She had donned a warm nightdress—at home in the Underground, she normally slept naked, but the temperature kept dropping, and she wanted the extra layer. The simple long-sleeved gown was made of cashmere wool and lined with silk. For Jareth, Sarah had improvised a pair of pajamas from the same fabrics: a hip-length tunic and drawstring trousers.

“All right, then. Freeze your gorgeous ass off. See if I care.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sarah drew on a pair of warm socks, also silk-lined wool. She had already been downstairs to make sure that Elfswhit and Wulfrun had sufficient wood and bed coverings. The two goblin sisters had combined their bedding onto one mattress and were sharing a bed: no doubt their sleep would be punctuated by kicking knees and jabbing elbows, but they’d at least be warm. Lizzie was wrapped in furs and bundled into a cradle, high off the floor. The two maids had orders to come get Sarah if the baby started fussing or crying.

The fire was banked for the night and the sheets had been swept with a bed warmer. Jareth drew the curtains around the big bed and settled in beside Sarah. Extra bedding had been piled up, including Jareth’s and Sarah’s fur-lined cloaks, but Sarah still shivered with cold. At last their combined body heat created a pocket of warmth, and they began to doze off, their sleep only interrupted by the irregular blasts of wind.

At some indeterminate point in the night, Sarah awoke to the sensation of Jareth thrashing about beside her.

“What?” she mumbled, irritated. With each jerk of the covers, icy fingers intruded into their cozy cocoon.

“Where are those damned things?” he said. Sarah could feel him shaking. The cold must be horrible indeed if Jareth had capitulated.

“Here,” she smiled, drawing out a bundle from beneath her pillow. “I even kept them warm for you.”

Jareth wiggled his way into the garments, grumbling, “I’m sure I’m going to be mocked for this.”

Sarah yawned, “I’ll be keeping this moment in reserve for the next time you chide me for being slow on the uptake.”

Jareth slid the tunic over his head, then reached down to draw the socks onto his feet.

“It must be bad if you’re wearing socks,” Sarah teased.

“Please do stop,” he huffed. Still muttering to himself, he turned on his side with his back to Sarah, but a particularly terrifying blast of wind went howling and shrieking past the palace walls, shaking the windows in their frames, and Jareth turned over, pulling Sarah tightly into his arms.

(vii)

Antarctica. A hurricane-force blizzard scouring the White Continent. Ernest Shackleton’s men stranded, the _Endurance_ locked in the pack ice, crushed into wreckage. The summit of Mount Washington, wind gusting at 230 miles an hour. Cold, cold, cold, zero degrees Kelvin. Absolute zero. Sarah moaned into her pillow.

She drifted for a while, until the smell of wood smoke drew her to awareness. Gingerly, she pushed the covers away from her face, enough to see. Outside the palace windows, the blizzard’s fury continued, unabated, even louder than it had been the previous day. Sarah didn’t think it was quite dawn—or what would pass for dawn on a day like this.

A moment later, Jareth hopped back into the bed and burrowed beneath the covers with a gasp of relief. He was blue with cold.

“You started the fire?” Sarah croaked.

He nodded, still shaking.

She could smell the fire burning, but could not hear its comforting crackle over the roar of the wind. She burrowed into Jareth until he stopped shivering. Through the dark draperies surrounding the bed, the fire could be perceived as a dull orange glow. As it grew brighter, Sarah drifted back to sleep until her bladder forced her into consciousness. By then, the temperature in the room had risen from frigid to merely very cold, and outside the bed hangings, Elfswhit was filling the braziers with hot coals.

In the bathroom, the fire had already been started, but even so, the toilet felt like a block of ice beneath Sarah’s bare legs, and she willed herself to urinate faster. She ran the water for a hot bath, amazed that the palace’s water supply hadn’t frozen solid. If this was a typical Aves winter, she thought, the pipes most likely had a permanent anti-freezing charm on them that would be in effect even during the Pax Deorum. When the tub was full, she slid into the hot water with a sigh of pleasure. A few moments later, Jareth joined her.

The day progressed much as the previous one. The difference was that the wind had risen, and its ghastly banshee wail no longer came in gusts—the blast was steady and unrelenting. After breakfast, Jareth and Sarah took Lizzie and went to the northeast wing, where Queen Inula and King Rumex had settled themselves again in the parlor. The holiday atmosphere had drained away with the increase in the wind’s velocity, and the adults sat huddled by the fire while the children played, quiet and uneasy. Everyone seemed to desire more than anything the company of others: during such a storm, solitude would be unbearable.

Around noon, as lunch was being set up, Sarah sought out a guard in the hallway.

“What news?” she asked the woman. “Anything?”

“Not much, your majesty,” the woman reported. “Everyone’s hunkered down, as best can be. It’s impossible to see out into the storm, the wind is too brutal for that, but at least from the south wing, we can open shutters enough to take measurements. The snow’s already covered the first floor windows, and it’s piling up at a rate of five or six inches an hour—at least as far as we can tell. The wind blows it around so much; who knows how deep it really is?”

“Will the roofs hold?” asked Sarah.

“Oh, aye,” the woman said, nodding with confidence. “At least here in the palace. Who knows what we’ll find out in the city, when this is over?”

“And what about you?” Sarah asked her.

“Your Majesty?” The guard appeared dumbfounded, as if nobody had ever asked about her welfare before.

“Are you warm, are you fed…?” Sarah let the question trail, open-ended.

“Oh, aye,” the woman responded. “Our shifts are short—three hours on duty, three hours off, all of us rotating turns. Off-duty, we go to one of the warming rooms. After twelve hours on duty, we sleep eight.”

“Good,” Sarah nodded. “You can’t work effectively if you’re cold, hungry, and exhausted.”

The guard thanked Sarah for her concern and went along her way. Sarah returned to the sitting room, shivering down to her core and wishing there was some way to make the next three days go faster.

(viii)

The rest of the day passed like that, interminable. Sarah had not until now appreciated how much she depended on the cycles of daylight not only to time her life but to anchor her perceptions of reality. Without the guidance provided by the signposts of night and day, she felt cut adrift in a numbing sensory vacuum.

She and Jareth took lunch and dinner in the sitting room of the northeast wing, only venturing from the comforts of warmth and companionship when they needed to use the bathrooms.

Queen Inula and her family had devised a practical way to pass the time: they brought out baskets of excellent quality cashmere and wool yarn and dozens of pairs of knitting needles. Sarah had never learned how to knit—she’d mastered weaving in high school art classes and had even created a tapestry, but she’d not been much of a knitter. Now, with Marsilea’s encouragement, she began work on a simple wool cap for Lizzie to wear on her head at night. The first few rows of stiches were crooked and awkward, but they became smoother as the basic movements were impressed in Sarah’s muscle memory.

In Vitis, it seemed everyone knitted, men and women alike. Agrostis was working with a very fine yarn to create a long under-tunic, while King Rumex amused himself making a one-piece warm suit for his grandson. Sarah did so well at the cap for Lizzie that she began working on one for herself.

While the fire crackled and needles clicked, Queen Inula kept the conversation focused on light, easy topics, mostly about the rugged, difficult terrain where the sheep and cashmere goats of Vitis were raised. By the time the evening meal was brought out, Sarah’s speed and dexterity both had improved, and she finished the sleeping cap for herself. After dinner, she started in on a cap for Jareth, though she suspected it would take some goading to get the thing onto his head.

The walk through the palace back to their own suite was miserable: fires in the common rooms had already been banked for the night as people sought the comfort of their beds. Deep in the interior rooms the storm’s fury could not be perceived, but in any exterior room, the wind shrieked and thundered past the windows so loudly that conversation was all but impossible. Jareth and Sarah hurried up the steps to the Falcon Suite. The dining room was cold and dark, but a fire still blazed in their bedroom. Sarah got Lizzie settled in her little cradle, tugging the warm cap onto the girl’s head before bundling her in.

The temperature in the big bedroom was tolerable until they had to bank the fire for the night, after which the cold grew increasingly worse. Sarah wore a shift beneath her nightdress and two pairs of socks, in addition to her new cap, but still she could scarcely get warm enough to relax into slumber. She lay shivering beneath the pile of fur and down and wool coverlets, her thoughts turning to the Underground, where even the depth of winter was not so severe. She found herself daydreaming about her childhood home, college dormitories. In the dark at midnight, a frozen pit of misery, she wondered why she’d ever left her own world for the Fae realm. If she hadn’t married Jareth, she might be ensconced in a Ph.D. program at the University of Michigan, living in student housing—a snug, lovely student apartment with central heating.

Sarah stared up at the darkened canopy overhead, wracked with shame. She loved Jareth beyond all reason, but at the moment, she would gladly have traded her marriage with him just to be back in Robert and Irene’s ultra-modern house. _I hated that house_ , she thought. _I wouldn’t mind being there now, though, with the radiators cranked full blast and a big mug of hot chocolate_.

In the small hours, Sarah couldn’t take any more and swung out of bed, stuffing her feet into slippers and wrapping herself in her cloak. Hunched in front of the fireplace, she dug through the ashes with a poker until glowing red coals were revealed. She fed kindling into the coals, watching as the first tentative flames began to lick around the small branches. When she had a decent blaze going, Sarah added larger pieces of firewood. After a brief trip to the glacial bathroom, she crept back into bed, huddling into Jareth’s warmth until she nodded off.

The morning brought bad news. She and Jareth and Lizzie were seated by the dining room fireplace, eating a hot breakfast, when a guard appeared in the doorway.

“Her majesty is ordering that all her guests pass the day in communal warming rooms, to conserve fuel,” the guard announced. “At night, fires should be banked.”

_Crap_ , Sarah thought. She could hardly blame Petronia for wanting to ration firewood, though she did wonder if the queen would obey her own dictates. Sarah was pleased to learn that the drawing room in Queen Inula’s suite was designated a “warming room,” and as soon as breakfast was over, she and Jareth took Lizzie back to the one area of the palace that offered any comfort or hope.

Conversation proved nigh well impossible with the volume of the wind, and so the cluster of guests sat bundled in their warm clothes next to the fire and the braziers, some knitting, some reading, but most just staring into nothingness. The walls and windows vibrated, and fingers of cold worked their way through even minute fissures in the masonry, the force of the wind so powerful that the heavy tapestries covering the walls and windows swung back and forth with perceptible movements. Few of the children tried to play: most sat near their parents, looking cold and anxious and miserable. Time dragged past, the monotony only broken only by the arrival of serving boys, swaddled in layers, bearing food.

Getting ready for bed that night, Sarah jolted with shock at the sound of an unearthly voice calling her name.

_“Sarah… Sarah… Sarah,”_ it moaned.

Stunned, Sarah jumped up from her seat, almost knocking down Elfswhit and Wulfrun, who’d been brushing her hair.

“Dad?” she shouted, darting across the carpet. “Dad, where are you?”

In a whirl of black cloak, Jareth emerged from the stairwell; he’d been down looking in on the goblins.

“That’s not your father, Sarah,” he said.

The voice called even louder. _“Sarah… Sarah!”_

“It’s him!” Sarah spun wildly, trying to determine the direction from which the voice was coming. The wooden shutters covering the windows began to shake in their frames, as if someone were outside, trying to get in. “Dad! He’s outside in the storm! Jareth, I have to go find him!”

“No!” Jareth seized Sarah in his arms. “No, Sarah, he’s not out there! There’s nobody out there. It’s the wind. That’s all! It’s the wind you’re hearing!”

_“Sarah… Sarah… **Sarah**!”_

She screamed, trying to wrestle her way out of Jareth’s arms, but his slight body possessed more strength than it appeared to, and he held onto her tightly, as if the wind threatened to suck her right through the heavy stone wall.

“He’s out there!” she sobbed. “I have to find him! He’ll freeze to death!”

“Sarah, look at me!”

Through her haze of tears, Sarah turned to Jareth.

“Where is he? Where is your father, right now? You know where he is—you were scrying in a tidal pool just days ago, trying to find him.”

At once, the moaning voice was only the wind again. Elfswhit and Wulfrun were staring at Sarah as if she’d taken leave of her senses.

“He’s at home,” Sarah said numbly. “He’s at home with Toby and Irene, and the baby they just had.”

“Exactly,” Jareth said. “No matter how real those voices sound, remember: it’s the wind. Nothing more.”

Sarah did her best to remember. All during that night, every time she drifted off, she kept jerking out of slumber, imagining she heard Robert calling her. She knew in her mind it wasn’t real, but the sound was so uncanny that emotional conviction overrode rational thought. Deep in her core, she couldn’t help believing that her father was out there in the storm, suffering. When she was able to sleep, nightmare visions plagued her: Robert, trapped outside, freezing to death, his face twisted into an icy rictus of agony, his dead eyes accusing Sarah: _you could have saved me_.

By the time morning came, Sarah felt as though she hadn’t slept at all. On nerveless legs she stumbled through the routine of washing and dressing. Nothing could warm her: the tub of hot water, the layers of wool and silk and fur, the blazing fire, breakfast. For one thing, the wind created such a cacophony of howling, shrieking, moaning, and roaring, that conversation proved impossible. A message came that Queen Inula and her family would be spending the day in one of the palace’s interior rooms, and she invited the goblin monarchs to join them. Jareth agreed without protest: his face bore a ravaged look, and he appeared older than Sarah had ever seen him. She could only guess at the demons with which he’d been wrestling.

The interior warming room was crowded with guests seeking refuge from the infernal wind, and they all huddled together, their breath rising in frosty puffs like the smoke from a hundred pipes, despite the fire and the braziers. The cold had succeeded in its relentless campaign to infiltrate the palace, and Sarah felt as though the stone walls were only holding in the cold now instead of keeping it out. But she knew the outdoors would be even colder.

All day long, the wind kept rising; even deep in the windowless room, its incessant rage could be perceived. Sarah felt as though she were drowning in a vast ocean, unable to hear anything except the inescapable crashing and booming of the waves. She kept Lizzie in her lap, holding the little girl tightly, one solid thing that anchored Sarah to reality and sanity.

They stayed in the warming room as long as possible, until weariness and aching limbs drove them back to their own suite. Sarah didn’t expect to sleep that night: she expected only more suffering. She and Jareth bundled Lizzie into bed between them; the baby kept twisting, turning first to her mother, then her father, as if wondering why one of them didn’t make the cold and the ghastly wind go away.

At some point during the night, the sound of a woman’s voice caused Sarah to jerk upright in bed.

_“Sarah… Sarah!”_

“Mom?” Sarah gasped.

_“Sarah, let me in!”_ The shutters rattled. _“Sarah, let me in; I’m freezing!”_

“Mom—Mom!” Sarah flailed her arms and legs, trying to free herself from the cocoon of covers.

“No—Sarah! No!” Jareth grabbed and held her fast.

_“I’m dying, Sarah! So cold! It hurts—the cold hurts, Sarah!”_

“Let me go—I have to let her in!”

Jareth pushed Lizzie into Sarah’s arms, wrapping himself around both of them. The baby whimpered.

“Sarah—this is what’s real. You—me—Elisabeth. That thing out there is _not_ your mother!”

“It’s her! It’s Mom!”

“It’s not!”

Sarah drew her baby closer, feeling the warm strength of the small body, trying to cling to the shreds of sanity that remained to her.

_“Sarah, please—please let me in! I’m dying, Sarah!”_ The phantasmic voice kept taunting her, like Cathy’s ghost in _Wuthering Heights_.

“Sarah, what did the tidal pool show you?” Jareth asked. “Where is your mother? What is she doing?”

Sarah sobbed out loud, torn between Jareth’s insistent demands and the siren call of her mother’s voice, worse in many ways than when she thought she’d heard Robert. Her mother—her beautiful mother. Her love for Linda had the capacity to wound far more than her love for Robert. Her mother, who had walked out when Sarah was only a year old, whose departure had left Sarah with an ache that never could be fully salved. She fancied the wind _knew_ that, guessed at Sarah’s greatest emotional weakness. In another moment, she would tear herself from Jareth’s arms and fling herself into the maelstrom, so convinced was she that Linda was _there_ , just outside the shuttered windows.

Sarah wrenched self-control back for a fleeting instant. An image flashed through her mind: Linda at the New Year’s Eve party, Linda in moss green satin and emeralds, Linda with her sleek, black bob and smooth, ageless complexion. Sarah held that vision in her mind, clinging to it like a lifeline.

“Face lift,” she croaked.

“Where is your mother?” Jareth persisted.

“Face lift!” Sarah screamed at the blackness, directing her anger into the heart of the gale. “You’re not my mother! My mother wouldn’t be outside in a storm because she’s a stupid, shallow bitch who doesn’t remember I exist! You can’t be real because MY MOTHER HAD PLASTIC SURGERY!”

The voice faded away, replaced by the sounds of the gale. The storm howled on, the angry bellow of a frustrated beast whose prey had eluded it. Its power over Sarah was broken. She dropped back to the pillows, shaking as much from relief as from cold. Jareth tightened his arms around her, and they warmed Lizzie between them.

The baby, at least, had no difficulty sleeping. When her breathing came deep and easy, Sarah whispered to Jareth, “What is it? Why does it hate us?”

“It’s a demon-wind,” he murmured in response.

“The king of all understatements,” she shuddered. “Is it… alive?”

Jareth considered this. “Not as we understand _alive_.” He was keeping his voice very quiet, as though he didn’t want the beast to hear him. “It’s an ancient, elemental force, perhaps left from when the realms were formed. Perhaps it comes from the Void—nobody knows. It lurks in the wastes of the worlds and only springs to life every few thousand years.”

Sarah whispered in his ear, “In places like the Wasteland?”

He murmured back, “Precisely.”

Sarah thought of Aranea, of its bleak, boulder-strewn Wasteland, whose incessant wind possessed the power to provoke madness.

“Has there ever been a storm like this in the Underground?”

“Not in my lifetime,” Jareth told her.

Sarah’s thoughts drifted to when she’d ridden out to seek Alaemon’s party, how even then the cold and the wind had felt like living, animate beings. And the storm had barely started. She shuddered all over again, even more glad that she’d gone to find the stragglers, in spite of Alaemon’s ingratitude. She wondered idly how the new mother was faring through all this. And then she felt a sense of release, that she could think about something other than fear and misery. She almost giggled. Surely the storm must lose its terrifying power if she could laugh at it. Her entire body relaxed. Sarah closed her eyes and slept.

(ix)

Something besides the cold and the urge to relieve herself woke Sarah. She was startled to realize she’d been sleeping for several hours, untroubled by dreams. Her keen goblin eyes detected a minute change in the environment of the room. She wiggled with great care over to the edge of the mattress and peered out behind the draperies. The usual nighttime blackness of the room had shifted to a charcoal gray.

Sarah realized then what had awakened her: quiet. Not complete silence, but the absence of the storm’s furious discordance. The wind still blew, but with less volume, less strength. Outside the palace walls, dawn must have broken, the sky still not cloudless, but certainly lighter than it had been for five days. Even with the windows shuttered and covered, the sun’s presence was making itself felt. The worst of the gale’s ferocity had passed. She and Jareth and Lizzie were alive, safe, and sane.

With a quiet exhalation, Sarah slipped from the bed, padded across the cold floor, and went in to the bathroom. Once back in bed, she eased again into the circle of body warmth, and after a brief check to be sure Lizzie was all right, Sarah fell again into slumber, her mind and body exhausted by the days of cold, fear, ennui, and crazy-making uncertainty.

She awoke later to the sounds of blessed normalcy: the crackling of the fire, the quiet screech and growl of her maids’ voices, the babble of Lizzie’s laughter. More faintly, she could hear the burr of people talking in the dining room. Her ears told her that the wind had dropped even more. When Sarah ventured from the bed, she found the room warmer than it had been in days, now that the heat from fire and braziers was not being sucked through the walls by the merciless gale. The tapestry had been drawn back from two of the windows, and although the shutters were still closed, a semblance of daylight pervaded the room.

Galvanized, Sarah went in to wash, and when she emerged, she had Elfswhit and Wulfrun lace her into a fresh gown—she’d been wearing the same dress, the warmest she possessed, since the second day of the storm. The deep blue velvet and brocade confection with the cloth of gold contrast fabric and abundant lace trim lifted Sarah’s spirits. In the dining room, Jareth didn’t even tease her about oversleeping. Sarah accepted a large plate of hot food and almost inhaled it in one swallow. Relief was the predominant emotion at the table, everyone eating, drinking, talking, laughing. It was as if they’d survived a shipwreck.

Serving boys arrived during breakfast with stacks of fresh firewood for the Falcon Suite, and Sarah quizzed them about the weather.

“Oh, aye, it’s slowing down,” one of them said. “Over by noon, that’s what the guards are saying.”

“How deep is it; do you know?” asked Sarah.

“Up to the fifth floor windows, Your Majesty,” the first one answered. “At least that’s what they’re saying.”

Fortified by her breakfast, Sarah ventured out to explore. She returned to the lookout tower’s hidden entrance and let herself in. Ignoring the drafts of cold air that blew down from above, Sarah made her way up the stairs, taking extra care on the last few steps, not sure if the wood had been damaged. With equal caution, she lowered the trapdoor, and as she did, a small avalanche of snow cascaded down the steps. Sarah let out a surprised squeak, jerking her body to one side. But nothing else fell. Lifting her skirt, she crunched through the snow and up into the tower room.

The shutters on the windows had held, but the snow, as granular and tiny as grains of sugar, had been driven into the room through every available fissure. About a foot of the snow lay in drifts on the stone floor, and a thin layer dusted the furniture. Sarah slipped off one of her gloves and let some of the white powder sift through her fingers. The snow was so dry that it seemed to contain no water whatsoever. She thought of winters in central New York, where dry snow was always preferable, as it was lighter and easier to clean than the heavy, wet, sloppy stuff. But Sarah had never seen snow like this.

She took several long, sideways strides, high-stepping over the biggest piles, until she reached a window. The iron bolts holding the shutters closed were icy to the touch and at first didn’t want to move; Sarah had to push with all her goblin strength. Then she opened the shutter and peered outside.

Her first impression was one of nothingness: a vast, formless universe of white. Snow lay on the steeply pitched rooftops, easily seven or eight feet deep in places, creating shaggy beards and eyebrows around windows. Here and there, Sarah discerned a familiar landmark, but otherwise, everything was obliterated. The field of white stretched to the horizon, where the land met the gray sky. High overhead, a thin layer of clouds raced past, and Sarah thought the sun might appear by afternoon. Now and then a few snowflakes gusted by, but that seemed to be fallen snow blowing in the wind. The precipitation had stopped.

Sarah finally realized the small black triangles she was seeing were rooftops in the Market Circle. The Outer Boulevard was completely covered with snow. The houses in the Market Circle were in snow up to their roofs. Even the houses in the Queen’s Yards were buried up to their fourth and fifth floors, the tops of the buildings like funny little gnome-dwellings.

“Oh, my God,” Sarah whispered, gawking at the endless expanse of white.

After a few moments, her eyes began to burn and water from the cold and from the effort of staring at the mountains of snow. She stepped away from the window, closing the shutters and sliding the bolts home. She glanced around the dim interior of the room, sensing nothing unusual about the place. If poor Ulan’s ghost haunted the tower, he wasn’t here now. Maybe it was too cold for him, too cold even for the dead.

(x)

Activity in the palace began returning to normal. The queen’s ersatz guests would have to remain in the palace until the end of the Pax Deorum, at which time magic could be used to clear the massive piles of snow from the city’s precincts. With the storm over, a true holiday mood took hold, and everywhere Sarah went—she spent much of the day walking from building to building, just to exercise her body—she found people in good humor: eating, drinking, laughing, children playing on the floors. Fires blazed in fireplaces, and the indoor temperatures grew more comfortable.

She was sitting with Queen Inula and Marsilea when a messenger arrived from Queen Petronia.

“All the royal families are invited to dine with her majesty this evening,” the guard pronounced. “Light entertainment will follow the meal.”

After the guard left, King Rumex murmured, “That’s not an invitation; that’s a summons,” causing everyone to laugh.

“Light entertainment?” said Jareth. “I would hate to see what Petronia’s idea of heavy entertainment would involve.” More gales of laughter followed this.

All joking aside, it was a lively group that gathered in Petronia’s suite that night. Even Alaemon was in attendance, along with her husband, Turnix, whom Sarah had not seen since the night the storm began. Divested of his many layers of outerwear, he was revealed as a handsome fellow, around five-ten and very lean, hair and beard glossy and reddish brown, eyes as green as holly leaves. He smiled and nodded at Sarah, but there was neither warmth nor gratitude in his expression.

Sarah was even more surprised to see Prince Cerastis sitting with Lenia’s family, talking with some animation to Lenia, her mother, and her grandmother. Sarah crossed her fingers, hoping that Lenia might begin to warm up to her youthful fiancé, even if her current show of enthusiasm was mostly to provoke jealousy in her sister Alaemon. Lady Vibiana was there, with her husband Anser, both dancers managing to paste pleasant smiles on their faces.

In just the few days that had passed since the last gathering of the royal families, the queen’s pregnancy had become more evident, or perhaps she was dressing in a way that emphasized her abdomen more obviously. King Tylas all but fawned over his fecund wife. Conversation centered mostly around the storm and the snow-clearing efforts that would begin once the Pax Deorum was lifted, but the queen’s unmistakable condition created a proverbial elephant in the room. Sarah could tell from people’s expressions and body language, the way their glances would shift sideways in Petronia’s direction, that her pregnancy was all anyone could think about.

The “light” entertainment Petronia had promised consisted of music provided by a half-dozen musicians, followed by brief performances from three young dance teams. The evening concluded with a more lengthy number by Ralli and Picus, a quiet, lyrical piece that left the audience in a mood of relaxed contemplation. After nearly a week of nonstop stress and worry, Sarah enjoyed the ninety minutes’ frivolity more than she had expected. When the king and queen retired for the night, Petronia invited her champion dancers to join her and Tylas for a nightcap. The rest of her guests made their way back to their own quarters.

The music and dancing, the images of bodies twining together, had stirred Sarah in ways other than aesthetic. In the Falcon Suite, left alone together after their maids had departed for the night, Jareth reached for Sarah, drawing her into his arms. She returned his kisses with the fervor of both passion and relief. “Sarah, my Sarah,” he kept whispering in her ear, and her nipples grew hard, rasping against the silk of her shift. An answering throb in her clitoris followed, and the first surge of wetness. Once they’d disrobed, Jareth drew her into the bed, and she mounted him without preamble. They hadn’t made love since before the storm, and with all danger past, they turned their attention to each other for the first time in nearly a week.

Some disturbance woke Sarah from black sleep an indefinite pace of time later. She sat up in the bed, her mind crystalline with the clarity of adrenaline-induced alertness. She sometimes woke in the night like this if Lizzie were crying; more distressingly, Sarah remembered coming to full awareness the night her childhood home had burned down. She’d always possessed a heightened sense that warned her of incipient danger, an ability that her goblin blood had honed to a supernatural edge. Almost without her being aware of it, she was out of the bed, donning her discarded shift, stuffing her feet into slippers, and wrapping herself in a cloak. Outside in the corridor, she took one of the heavy glass lanterns from its wall sconce and made her way down the stairs out of the Falcon Suite.

“Your Majesty?” The guards at the entrance to the suite appeared baffled to see her.

Sarah gestured to one of them. “Come with me,” she commanded.

She made her way through the maze of corridors and stairways, relying on her sixth sense and the more ordinary senses of scent and hearing. In the frigid stone corridors, sound traveled with uncanny precision, amplifying even the tiniest noises. Before she realized where she was going, Sarah had left the southwest part of the palace and had entered the cluster of buildings that made up the south wing, where Petronia’s quarters were located. The prickling sensation inside her ears grew stronger, leading Sarah down several flights of stairs, until she found herself in a subterranean corridor.

By now she was almost running, the guard taking long, loping strides to keep up. Around the corner up ahead, Sarah could see the glow of torchlight, and she heard a quiet, urgent murmur of voices that even someone without goblin hearing could have discerned.

Sarah rounded the final corner and burst upon the sordid tableaux. The voices belonged to the half-dozen guards who stood in a shocked circle around a figure that lay prone on the cold stone floor. They stepped aside as Sarah approached, faces reflecting their uncertainty: as a visiting queen, Sarah was due their deference, but she held no authority in Aves.

“Your Majesty,” one of them stammered, “you shouldn’t—”

“Let me see,” Sarah ordered. She knew even from several paces back the thing on the floor was a corpse. Funny the difference between a dead body and a person who was asleep or even unconscious. It was the complete lack of movement, Sarah realized, the absence of breath, that provided the incontrovertible evidence of lifelessness. The guards parted ranks, and Sarah’s gaze fell upon the body.

A female figure, facedown on the flagstones, limbs splayed around her. A purple cloak, a spill of long, dark hair. A cruel, grotesque indentation on the top of her head proclaimed the cause of death. Blood matted the hair around the injury. The head was turned to the side, the mouth slack. Blood had dribbled from the mouth, the nose, already congealing and black.

“Oh, God,” Sarah whispered, dropping to her knees beside the body. “ _Lenia_.”

**To be continued…**

 

 


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-13-17.

_Nine_

Shock acted as an anesthetic. For the first few moments, Sarah knelt in her cloak beside her friend’s lifeless body, unable to process what she was seeing. Lenia was dead. That beautiful, lively, vivacious girl had been savagely bashed on the top of her head—by someone standing behind her, Sarah realized, filing away the detail almost without conscious effort.

“Your Majesty, the queen’s personal guard has been summoned,” said the guard nearest Sarah.

Sensation returned in a cold, hard rush, and Sarah stood, a wave of practicality sweeping over her. She turned at once to the guard.

“Fetch me paper, ink, and a good pen,” she ordered.

“Your Majesty…?”

“A visual record needs to be made of the body,” Sarah said. “Go, now, quickly!” The woman scurried away, and Sarah turned to the other guards.

“Have any of you touched the body, or moved it in any way?”

Their heads shook in unison.

“Bring torches and lanterns, then,” Sarah commanded. “We need as much light around her as possible.” In response to their baffled expressions, Sarah told them, “There may be physical evidence on the body that will lead us to her murderer. It needs to be collected before it can be removed or disturbed or contaminated.”

The five women swung into action, collecting the nearest available sources of light and bringing them to Sarah. A moment later, the first guard came running back into the corridor, hands full of writing materials; there must be an office or a salon nearby. She had also taken the extra step of bringing a small, portable writing desk. Sarah blessed her forethought.

Without the tools of modern forensic investigation—about which Sarah admittedly knew very little—she would have to rely on visual detail. There would be no autopsy, no chemical analyses of bodily fluids. Sarah first made a note of the location: further down the corridor was an arched doorway, doubtless leading to another building in the south wing. To the right of Lenia’s body, about ten feet away, was the base of a staircase leading up into darkness.

“Where do those stairs go?” Sarah asked.

“Up to the Shrike Suite, your majesty,” one of the guards responded. “The royal family of Varan is quartered there for the coronation.”

Sarah jotted down that information, then went on with her inspection. To the left of the body was a smooth expanse of stone wall, set with the usual lanterns in niches at intervals. There were no other doorways or windows; the corridor was essentially at basement level. The cold was intense.

Sarah next made a sketch of Lenia’s body where it lay, blessing her years of art lessons. Willing her cold hands to be steady, she made four quick drawings: from the front, from the back, from each side, taking care to note in particular the position of head and hands. Most difficult was drawing the fatal head wound. When she was done, Sarah set aside the writing desk and crawled around the body on her hands and knees, observing every detail. Beneath the aubergine cloak, Lenia had been wearing a plain linen dress of the same deep purple. She was not wearing any jewelry. Her forearms were uninjured, the garments neither torn nor blood-stained; she did not appear to have made any attempt to defend herself. There had been only one, fatal blow. On her feet she wore low-heeled, fur-lined shoes.

Sarah examined the horrible indentation in Lenia’s skull, probing gently with a fingertip, but she could not feel any debris that would give a hint of the murder weapon—no slivers of wood, for example. Judging by the shape of the concavity, the killer had used something with a rounded surface—the image of a baseball bat came to Sarah’s mind; she knew it wasn’t possible, but the idea refused to budge.

In spite of the intense cold, some warmth remained in the body’s core, which Sarah determined by sliding two fingers inside the collar of Lenia’s gown, over the collarbone and down to the soft breast tissue.

“When was she found, and by whom?” Sarah barked.

“On the change of watch, less than an hour ago, just after midnight,” one of the guards provided. Sarah made a note of that as well.

She used her nose, sniffing up and down the length of Lenia’s body, mouth slightly open, letting all the scents available pass through her nose and over her tongue. Not caring how ridiculous she looked, Sarah closed her eyes and let her goblin senses process the information. The gown and cloak belonged to Lenia: both garments were steeped in her scent. Overall, Lenia smelled clean—very clean, almost as if she had recently washed; about the body hung a strong miasma of almond soap and rosewater. Lenia’s usual freesia scent must come from some kind of perfume or powder; just that evening at dinner, Sarah had caught a whiff of it. But Sarah could not detect it now; the floral scent also was absent from Lenia’s gown and cloak.

Trying not to seem grotesque, Sarah lingered for a moment over the area of Lenia’s buttocks. She could only detect the girl’s clean, female scent. There was not even a hint of the distinctive musk of male sex. The olfactory evidence confirmed that presented by Lenia’s undisturbed clothing. She hadn’t been raped. Not only that, she hadn’t engaged in any sexual activity—at least with a man—since washing herself.

Sarah got to her feet, trying to ignore the guards’ expressions of shock and disapproval, scribbling quick notes of everything she’d observed. When she took one last look to see if there was anything she’d missed, her gaze fell on Lenia’s feet, her shoes. Apart from the day they’d gone riding, Sarah didn’t think she’d seen Lenia wearing any shoes other than those with heels. She always knew when Lenia was coming, because she could hear the tippity-tapping of the girl’s high-heeled shoes. Not only were these shoes warm and low-heeled, a layer of felted wool had been stitched over the outer soles.

Sarah had just finished jotting down that final note when a cadre of Petronia’s guards burst into the corridor. They took charge of the scene with such force and efficiency that Sarah was grateful for whatever impulse had prompted her to gather as much evidence from the body as possible. She handed the small writing table to the youngest of the guards, gathered up the sheets of her notes, and concealed the rolled parchment beneath her cloak.

“By the Goddess!” one of the guards thundered. “It’s Lenia! Who could have done this?”

Sarah’s ears detected the sounds of an angry struggle, muffled, but rapidly approaching. The door at the far end of the corridor banged open, wood slamming against stone with a report as loud as a gunshot. Two more guards appeared, dragging a small, childlike figure between them. They must have overheard the question, because one of the women shouted, “We found this one here, wandering about an empty salon upstairs, unable to properly account for himself!” She gave the figure a shove forward. “What do you have to say about that, hmm? Do you recognize that girl on the floor, you monstrous little beast?”

The object of her wrath staggered forward, toppling onto his hands and knees. When he landed, the impact knocked aside the hood of his threadbare cloak, and Sarah stared at him, uncomprehending. The oversized bald head, fringed by white hair, the enormous bulbous nose, the blue eyes, watery from the cold, blinking with a mixture of terror and confusion. It was impossible. This couldn’t be real.

It was Hoggle.

(ii)

If the discovery of the body had been bad, the confrontation with Petronia that followed was somehow even worse.

The queen sat in her large, comfortable chair, feet propped on a small, tapestry-upholstered stool in front of her. When she shifted her legs, the hem of her nightgown—an exquisitely embroidered silk, Sarah noted with odd, clinical detachment—shifted, showing for a brief moment Petronia’s bare, puffy white ankles. Her feet were swollen. A cloak, fur-trimmed and fur-lined, was draped about her shoulders, her hair glowing vermillion against the sable. Seated beside the queen, holding her hand, was King Tylas, tousled and ineffectual.

Judging by the queen’s stony face, she had not appreciated being awakened in the depths of night, and she’d been in no mood to hear the inevitable tragic news. On a settee near the queen sat Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama. The sinister Gannet was hunched over weeping, while Jacama, the dead girl’s mother, sat expressionless, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her nightdress in convulsive little jerks.

A door opened, and in shuffled Alaemon, followed a few minutes later by her husband, who appeared untidy and breathless, as if he’d run to the Eagle Suite from another part of the palace. Alaemon had arranged her face into an expression of shock, outrage, and sorrow, but the practiced mask could not conceal an underlying irritation: at having been awakened so rudely; at her sister, even in death, always being the center of attention. Her husband Turnix tried to take her arm in a comforting gesture, and she angrily swatted him away. Alaemon stalked to the most comfortable empty chair and lowered herself into it, exhaling a long-suffering sigh as she did.

The guards made their report to the queen. The night watch, which changed shortly after midnight, had discovered Lenia’s body in the corridor of the Shrike Suite’s lowest level. The guards’ last duty, before they retired from their shifts, was to make a quick pass through the building in which they were posted. Depending on the size of a building, there might be anywhere from six to two dozen guards on duty at any given time, and they rotated “sweeping,” as they called it, among them. The two women who’d been standing watch outside the Varanese royal family’s quarters had been the designated sweepers for that night, and they’d found Lenia when they’d gone down to inspect the basement level. One woman had remained with the body while the other had summoned four more guards. It must have been this commotion which had awakened Sarah.

Petronia’s cold blue gaze settled on the Goblin Queen. “And why were you about at such a wretched hour?”

“The disturbance awoke me, Your Majesty.”

“All the way from the Falcon Suite?” Petronia scoffed.

“I have excellent hearing, Your Majesty.”

Petronia let that pass. Her eyes swiveled in the direction of the two guards standing watch over poor Hoggle. Sarah tried to keep her face impassive.

“And what is that repulsive thing?”

One of the guards said, “We’d been alerted to the discovery of the body, Your Majesty, and we thought it prudent to search the rest of the Shrike Suite. We found him wandering around an empty salon, not doing anything, just stumbling about. We questioned him, but he wouldn’t answer.”

_He was lost_ , Sarah thought.

From her comfortable chair, Alaemon yawned, “Oh, for pity’s sake, it’s our servant. His name is Mephitis. He’s as harmless as a worm. And you won’t get anything out of him; he can’t speak.”

“Can he write?” one the guards asked.

Alaemon scowled, “Why would a thing like that be able to write?”

“Where is he from?” asked Petronia, her expression distasteful, as though Hoggle were a mud puddle to avoid stepping in.

“Nobody knows,” said Alaemon. “Kosma and her brother Ochen found him when they were playing by the river. He washed up on the bank.”

_My vision_ , Sarah realized. The reason for her dream became clear: it had nothing to do with Kosma and everything to do with Hoggle. He must have come to the palace with the rest of Alaemon’s party—with a rush of comprehension, Sarah remembered the figures of children she’d seen in the gatehouse the night the storm began, the vague sense that one of them looked familiar. Her heart compressed: it must have been Hoggle under one of those cloaks. Why, oh why, had she not recognized him?

Petronia was speaking. “Where was he quartered?” she asked.

“In the east wing, with the rest of our household,” said Alaemon. “I believe they’re in the Vireo Suite.”

“So why was he roaming around the south wing in the dead of night?” said Petronia.

Sarah dared to speak up. “Your Majesty, perhaps he was on an errand.”

The guard said, “We shook him down, and there’s no papers on him.”

“Looking to see what he could steal,” said Alaemon, twirling a strand of her hair like a Valley Girl.

“Has he ever stolen anything at your farm?” Sarah asked her.

“Not that I’m aware of,” the young mother responded. “But _look_ at him. A face like that, he couldn’t have been up to anything good.”

Sarah asked the guards, “Did you find any stolen property on him?”

The women shook their heads.

Sarah said, “Your Majesty, this man is a dwarf. He couldn’t possibly have murdered Lenia—he wouldn’t have been able to reach her head.”

“Lenia was not a tall woman,” Petronia scowled.

Sarah gestured to one of Petronia’s maids of honor, and when the girl stepped forward, Sarah motioned for her to stand in front of Hoggle, both of them in profile to Petronia. The girl was about Lenia’s height.

“Lenia was struck on the top of her head, not the back of it,” Sarah went on. “This dwarf has short, stubby arms—it would have been physically impossible for him to strike her that way.”

“Perhaps he stood on something,” King Tylas suggested.

“He fetched a footstool to commit murder?” Sarah argued. “That’s beyond the bounds of common sense.”

“Nevertheless, he was the only one in the south wing who can’t account for his presence there,” said Petronia.

“Because he can’t speak or write,” Sarah countered. She kept glancing at Hoggle, who gave no indication whatsoever that the recognized her. Her heart shriveled with pain. “Are you going to condemn him without giving him a chance to defend himself?”

“Oh, don’t be so tiresome!” Petronia exploded. “I’m tired of you always putting your goblin snout in my affairs, Queen Sarah!” She gestured to the guards. “Lock him up. He’ll be sentenced after the Pax Deorum ends.”

“But Your Majesty, the real killer could be—” Sarah’s words died in her mouth; Petronia had already swept from the presence chamber, a trail of simpering ladies in her wake. From deeper inside the suite, a door slammed. Sarah watched, helpless, as Hoggle was led out by the guards. Turnix was helping Alaemon to her feet, and some of the maids had swooped in to assist Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama.

“Your Majesty, let me escort you back to the Falcon Suite,” a guard murmured, and Sarah had no choice but to go along, her cold fingers clutching the rolled parchments beneath her cloak.

(iii)

“He’s alive. How could he be alive?”

Jareth and Sarah paced the lower level of the Falcon Suite, surrounded by swooping and shrieking goblins. The days of the storm had done nothing to lessen their wild energy and madcap antics. Sarah had chosen this location to provide cover for her voice and Jareth’s; she still couldn’t shake off the worry about eavesdroppers.

This question didn’t overly perplex Jareth. “He was stunned by the cold, and the Great River carried him into Aves. He must have washed into one of the river’s tributaries.” Maybe Hoggle had been in a coma, which had allowed him to survive.

“We have to tell them!” Sarah insisted. “We have to tell them we know him—Hoggle wouldn’t hurt a fly! We can tell Petronia he went under the ice, and—”

“We _can’t_ ,” said Jareth. “The Great River flows out of Eutheria into Aranea, and from Aranea directly into Aves—it’s nowhere near the Underground. Petronia will want to know what Hogshead was doing in Aranea. We can’t do that without admitting we were there, too.”

“We have to,” Sarah insisted.

Jareth barked a short laugh, devoid of mirth. “Do you, Sarah? You murdered Portia. You murdered Theridion, Petronia’s brother. How do you think she’d react to that? She’d have both of us summarily executed. Is that what you want—to leave Lizzie an orphan?”

“There must be some way.”

“There isn’t.”

Sarah turned from Jareth, staring at the tumbling, noisy goblins. How like him to do nothing. He was right about Lizzie, he was right about how Petronia would react if she knew Jareth and Sarah were responsible for her brother’s death. But Jareth had always regarded Hoggle as a rival for Sarah’s affections, so his very legitimate worries dovetailed nicely with his longstanding dislike of the dwarf.

But Sarah couldn’t abide the thought of poor, dear Hoggle being put to death for a murder he didn’t commit. She couldn’t bear watching him either be executed outright or condemned to a living death in the salt plains. Even worse, Lenia’s actual killer would walk free, unscathed. Hoggle was Sarah’s friend. Lenia had been her friend. The thought that one friend would be falsely accused of murdering the other was intolerable. She glared at Jareth, who stood with his arms folded on his chest, face set in an obdurate expression. He just wouldn’t understand. Jareth didn’t have friends. Oh, he loved Sarah—loved her, loved Lizzie. If one of them had been in peril, he’d have wrestled a dragon bare-handed to save them. But everyone else was his minion or his adversary. Friendship was an alien concept to him.

Sarah realized if Hoggle were to be exonerated, she would have to identify Lenia’s killer herself and gather enough evidence so that Petronia would be forced to capitulate. Hoggle deserved justice. Lenia deserved to be avenged.

For a moment, Sarah’s resolve flagged. She was in a foreign kingdom; everything was against her; she was a goblin; nobody would trust her. Then she remembered how she’d outwitted Jareth at fifteen years old. _And how did you do that?_ she asked herself. Even Jareth had once admitted the secret of her triumph—she’d made friends and gotten them to help her.

“I’ll do it, then.” Before Jareth could utter so much as a protest, Sarah had whirled on her heel and flown up the steps. It was time for battle.

(iv)

“So, you see, there’s no way that dwarf could have killed her.”

Queen Inula and her daughter-in-law Marsilea sat at the small table, listening as Sarah made her case. When Sarah finished talking, she gulped warm, sweet wine. She knew her hands were shaking, her face white, but that was no matter. Let them think her concern was all about justice for Lenia. She prayed the two women from Vitis could be trusted.

Inula’s gaze scanned over the sheets of parchment, glancing up at Sarah with admiration. “I wonder you had the presence of mind to record all this.”

“I realize it’s ghoulish and I apologize for that, but I thought there should be a written account, in case someone tried to contradict me later.”

“That was very wise,” said Marsilea.

“She was wearing a purple dress and a purple cloak?” Queen Inula frowned.

“Yes,” Sarah responded.

“That’s very peculiar, because it’s what the royal dancers wear. That color.”

Sarah shrugged her shoulders: up and down, once. If possible, she did not want to divulge Lenia’s secret affair with the Estridian dancer.

Marsilea broke the awkward silence. “How can we help?”

Sarah said to Inula, “You know the palace better than I do. I need to know who’s staying where. Where is everyone quartered?”

Inula said to her daughter-in-law, “Fetch my writing things.” Marsilea hastened from the room.

Inula said, “You do know how difficult this is going to be. Petronia will shield whoever is responsible, from a sense of pride. It would be impossible for her to admit one of her pets may have done this.”

“That’s why I need evidence not even Petronia can argue with.”

When Marsilea returned with the queen’s small writing desk, Inula began to sketch out a schematic of the palace. The four major wings of the palace aligned with the points of the compass, and the other four wings were within those points. Inula didn’t attempt to sketch each individual building, but she did make a note of where everyone was staying.

“The Eagle Suite is in the south wing, and the other members of Petronia’s family have their quarters in the south wing as well, including Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama. They obviously have their own homes in the Queen’s Yards, but most of the time they’re here in the palace.”

“Lenia’s sister Alaemon and her husband, Turnix, are quartered there as well,” Sarah added. “But the rest of their household is in the east wing. And the royal family from Varan is in the south wing, in the Shrike Suite.”

Marsilea said, “The farmers from the countryside are all quartered in the north wing.”

Sarah said, “The salt miners and peat boggers are bunking in the Summer Hall.” As they spoke, Inula’s quill scratched across the parchment.

“And we’re here in the northeast wing,” said Marsilea.

“What else is in the east wing, besides Alaemon’s party?” asked Sarah. “I know the museum is there, too, but there are other buildings.”

“There’s a barracks for the guards in the east wing,” said Inula, making a note. “And a smaller barracks in the west wing, as well.”

Marsilea said, “The conservatory is in the southeast wing, and the dancers are quartered there, aren’t they?”

“Yes.” Inula’s pen scratched in swift strokes. “The royal family from Eutheria is being quartered in the southwest wing, I believe in the Pelican Suite. And of course you and Jareth are there as well, in the Falcon Suite.”

“What’s in the west wing, besides the library and the smaller guards’ barracks?” asked Marsilea. “Anything?”

“The Sabalians are there, in the old Corvus House,” said Queen Inula. She told Sarah, “It was a freestanding building at one time, but now it’s incorporated into the main palace.”

“What about the northwest wing?” asked Marsilea.

Inula said, “I believe that’s where Petronia quartered the families from the Market Circle.”

Sarah said, “There’s a family from the Queen’s Yards in the Falcon Wing with us.”

“Those families are scattered over the southeast, south, and southwest wings,” said Inula, making notes. That completed all the points of the compass.

“And the temple’s in the center of the palace,” said Marsilea. “Don’t forget that.”

Inula made another notation, and for a few moments, the three of them sat in silence, examining the diagram.

“What about the servants?” asked Sarah. “Where are they quartered?”

“In the basements—there are four kitchens and two laundry areas on the lowest levels,” Inula provided. “The servants’ quarters are adjacent to the kitchen and laundry areas, because of the warmth from the fires.” The point of her quill scratched across the parchment once again.

“So how did H—Mephitis get from the east wing to the south wing?” asked Sarah.

“Pretty easily,” said Inula. “There’s a corridor that goes past the entrance to the guards’ barracks directly into the south wing, so that guards can get to the royal suite quickly if needed—it completely cuts off the southeast wing.” She made a line on the paper, indicating roughly where the corridor would be. “It leads into the south wing two floors above the basement level.”

“That’s where they found Mephitis,” said Sarah. “So he may have come directly from the east wing.”

Marsilea said, “It’s easy enough to get lost in the palace because the layouts of the buildings are different from each other, and the buildings don’t always connect in the same way. Agrostis and I have been misdirected a couple of times.”

“A servant wouldn’t be wandering around on his own in the dead of night,” Sarah remarked. “He must have been out and about for a reason.”

“Probably an errand,” said Inula. The three women glanced at each other.

Sarah voiced their unspoken thought. “What kind of errand do you send a mute amnesiac on in the middle of the night?”

Marsilea said, “An errand you don’t want anyone to know about.”

“So who in Alaemon’s household would have the authority to send a servant on a secret errand at midnight?” asked Sarah.

Inula said, “A steward. The property overseer, perhaps. But a dwarf wouldn’t be sent into the south wing, the royal quarters—that would reflect poorly on Alaemon.”

“Alaemon wouldn’t want him around, I can tell you that much,” Sarah nodded. “She thinks he’s revolting.”

Marsilea said, “He’s the sort of servant you’d send to the stables, maybe the kitchens.”

“At midnight?” asked Sarah, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “In the freezing cold?”

Marsilea shrugged and gave a soft laugh. “It does seem unlikely.” Her honey-brown eyes returned to the diagram of the palace. “What we really need is to talk to someone in the household, someone who knows Mephitis, who knows the kinds of work he does, the kinds of errands he might be sent on.”

Queen Inula said, “I’m no help there. I scarcely know Alaemon. She didn’t attend Eucissa’s funeral.”

Sarah thought for a few moments, thought about someone who might be persuaded to talk, someone who might be free with details. Inspiration struck her. She thought she knew exactly the right person, but she would need some sort of pretext for an introduction. Excited, she turned to Inula.

“I need you to host a little get-together,” she said. “But it has to be a very special kind of party.” And she told Inula what she needed.

(v)

Jareth surveyed the scene of unfolding chaos; hands on his hips, he pronounced with some satisfaction, “Goblins make less noise than this lot.”

“Good,” Sarah nodded, handing Lizzie to him with a smile.

“And what’s my role in this hullabaloo?” he inquired.

“Add to it,” Sarah grinned. “Be a goblin—what you do best.”

For the party, Queen Inula had commandeered the largest room in the northeast wing—small by usual palace standards, but the closest thing to a ballroom that was available to her.

Racing harum-scarum around the polished wooden floor was a gaggle of young children, as many kids as were in all probability currently resident in the palace. There were the children of the royal families and their retainers, the children of the noble families, the children of the families who resided in the Queen’s Yards, and for good measure, the children of the Market Circle families. The only kids who weren’t invited were the farmers’ children and obviously the young salt miners and peat boggers. Based on a quick headcount, there were nearly two hundred youngsters in the room, ranging in ages from about five up through about thirteen or fourteen. Some older teenagers acted as chaperones. Marsilea was there with her husband Agrostis and their son Delonix, providing guidance to the young merry-makers.

Sarah had dictated the menu to Inula, and the palace servants had come through without fail: candied fruits, honey-coated nuts, and all manner of sweet tarts and custards. A handful of apprentice musicians in pale blue linen gowns provided a constant stream of lively music, and a group of novice dancers in lavender garb were instructing the children in folk jigs and reels. Young choristers in pale green led the children in singing popular songs. Later, there would be a storyteller. The combination of sugar, music, dancing, and general excitement had turned the staid ballroom into a scene of well-organized pandemonium.

The pretext of the party, of course, was to celebrate the end of the storm and give the cooped-up kids something fun to do. In reality, the noisy affair would provide cover for Sarah’s personal agenda, which required a certain amount of subterfuge.

She identified her quarry early and watched him throughout the party, keeping him in her sightlines while she danced with Jareth and Lizzie and sang along with the folk tunes of Aves. She gauged the mood of the party, and when the revelry had reached a fevered pitch, she slipped away from Jareth and cornered her prey at the sweets table.

“Hello,” she said, treating the boy to her most dazzling smile. “You must be Ochen.”

He looked up at her with an expression akin to amazement, then remembered his manners and bent forward in an adorable bow, still clutching fistfuls of candied nuts in his hands.

“Are you enjoying the party?” Sarah inquired.

“Very much, Your Majesty,” the boy breathed.

“What do you like best?”

“The dancing,” he said, his face lighting up. Sarah put his age at perhaps ten, a year or two older than his sister Kosma.

“That’s hardly surprising,” Sarah told him in an easy, conversational voice. “Your father, King Tylas, is an accomplished dancer.”

His gray eyes went wide at the offhand mention of his distinguished sire, and Sarah returned his thunderstruck expression with an indulgent smile.

“Of course I know who your father is,” she said. “You should be proud to be the king’s child. Is this your first visit to Phoebetria?”

He nodded.

“Have you enjoyed yourself?” When the boy hesitated, Sarah laughed and said, “Don’t worry; I won’t tell anyone if you’re feeling bored or restless.”

“It was a long, frightening journey here,” the boy admitted. “And cold. It’s cold here, too. And Kosma’s always in the queen’s rooms now. She won’t play with me anymore.”

“She’s not here today,” observed Sarah, relieved at the girl’s absence. One day Kosma would grow up to be like Baroness Gannet: able to see through walls.

“No, Queen Petronia wouldn’t let her come.”

_Of course not_ , Sarah thought. A children’s party would be beneath the dignity of a girl being groomed as a priestess. Heaven forbid the queen’s new pet rub elbows with the hoi polloi.

“Don’t you have other friends?” asked Sarah.

“Only Mephitis, and they took him away, too. The guards said he did something wicked.”

Sarah’s eyes went wide with sympathy. “Is Mephitis your friend?”

“He’s our servant. He’s a dwarf. He makes me laugh.”

“Why, does he do things that are funny?”

“No, he’s funny cos he doesn’t know where he comes from, and he can’t speak.”

That didn’t sound very funny to Sarah, but she didn’t chide Ochen for his cruelty. Instead, she asked, “What kind of work does a dwarf do on your farm?”

“He mostly weeds the gardens. Sometimes he goes fishing.”

“Mmh-hmm,” Sarah encouraged, wrestling back a pang of sadness: Hoggle had loved to fish. “It must be easy for a dwarf to weed gardens, being so short.”

Ochen nodded in agreement, now eager to share with his new confidante. “And he runs errands for her ladyship’s husband.”

“Well, that must be useful for Turnix,” said Sarah, hoping her casual use of the first name would create an affinity between her and Turnix in the boy’s mind. “I’d imagine Mephitis runs errands for all sorts of people.”

“No, just for his lordship.”

“There are lots of guards and servants who run errands in the palace,” Sarah remarked. As a joke, she added, “You can’t step outside your room without tripping over one of them—always in such a hurry, too.”

Ochen giggled. He said, “Mephitis runs errands here.”

“Does he? It’s such a big place, to learn your way around.”

“His lordship was always sending Mephitis somewhere when I wanted to play with him.” Ochen pouted.

“Did you go on the errands with him?”

“No,” the boy sulked. “I wanted to go with Mephitis, once, but his lordship wouldn’t let me.”

“That wasn’t fair to you, to take away your playmate for so long.”

“It wasn’t _that_ long,” the boy admitted. “Mephitis would come back soon—the candles wouldn’t even be burned down.”

“Well, that’s not so bad, then,” Sarah responded, giving the boy another smile. He preened at this show of royal favor. “It wouldn’t be fair, would it, to send someone with short legs over a long distance?”

“I suppose,” the boy said, looking doubtful.

The piece of music that was playing came to a spirited conclusion, and Sarah told Ochen, “They’ll be starting another dance; why don’t you join them?”

“All right!” he said, and he scampered across the room, shoving the fistfuls of nuts into his mouth as he ran. Sarah crossed the room in a different direction, melting into the crowd of adults, exhaling and glancing about. Her entire conversation with Ochen had taken less than five minutes, and as far as she could tell, nobody had given the exchange any particular notice. With seamless grace, she took Lizzie from Jareth and joined the group of dancers, bouncing the baby girl, who clapped her fat hands and shrieked with excitement.

(vi)

Back in the Falcon Suite that evening, Sarah thought over everything Ochen had revealed. Based on what he’d said, it sounded as though Turnix had been quartered in the east wing with the rest of his household, not in the south wing with his wife and daughter. Sarah recalled how he’d come running into Petronia’s quarters the night of the murder.

So if Turnix had sent Hoggle on an errand from the east wing, where could a dwarf have gone—and come back—in a brief amount of time—say between fifteen and thirty minutes? Sarah studied once again the map of the palace. The east wing had its own kitchen, and it also was one of the two wings with a laundry, so Hoggle might have gone down to the basement. But at midnight? Sarah would need to confirm the hours that the servants were expected to work, but it seemed to her even they would be asleep at that hour.

That left the guards’ barracks. Sarah had not until that moment thought very much about the city and palace guards: they were tall, athletic women, anonymous in their robin’s egg blue tunics. But some were pretty—she thought of Fayannah, the guard who’d ridden out with her the afternoon the storm began. Sarah sat up straighter, gears awhirl in her mind. Fayannah, young and comely, with her fair curls and rosy face. Fayannah, who had accompanied Turnix back to the palace with Alaemon’s litter. Turnix and Fayannah, riding side by side in a desperate race against time. Sarah jumped to her feet, propelled into motion by a sudden hunch.

(vii)

At the guards’ barracks in the east wing, she requested to speak with Fayannah. The guard on duty sent a young trainee to fetch her.

While Sarah waited, she studied the layout of the entrance to the barracks. As Inula had said, a corridor ran straight from the south wing to the east wing two floors above basement level. Sarah had located the disused parlor where Hoggle had been apprehended—there were a few pieces of furniture still askew from the scuffle—and traced backwards the path he seemed to have taken. The straightaway from south to east wing was indistinguishable from other corridors in the palace, and by night, illumination would have been minimal. Sarah could see how someone unfamiliar with the palace could lose all sense of direction in the maze-like corridors.

A few moments later, Fayannah emerged from the interior of the guards’ quarters. She wore a robin’s egg blue tunic over black leggings. Out of her armor she appeared slighter than Sarah remembered, but she still was a powerful young woman, easily six feet tall and broad-shouldered. Her physique brought to mind student athletes from Sarah’s college days, the girls who had swam and rowed crew for Oneida University. One of Sarah’s freshman year dorm-mates had been a high school butterfly champion, her build very like Fayannah’s.

“Your Majesty,” the girl smiled. “Please allow me the opportunity to make a proper bow.” And she bent gracefully at the waist.

“It’s nice to see you again, Fayannah,” Sarah responded. “You look well.” And she did, her face now healed from its angry red windburn.

“Can I be of assistance to you, Your Majesty?”

“Yes—is there anywhere we could speak in private?”

“Of course.” Fayannah led Sarah to a nearby door, which opened into a small room with a table and two chairs. The plain furniture reminded Sarah of the pieces in the high lookout tower, and she fought back a shudder. Rather than sit, she remained standing. She prayed the heavy wooden door and stone walls would muffle the sounds of their conversation.

Without preamble or bothering to mince words, Sarah commanded, “Tell me about your affair with Turnix.”

The look on the girl’s face, a mix of shock and abject terror, was perversely gratifying. Sarah’s suspicion had amounted to a wild shot in the dark, which she hadn’t been sure would strike its target with such unerring precision.

“Your—Your Majesty,” Fayannah stammered. “Please—”

From beneath her bodice, Sarah withdrew her amulet with the Dragon’s Heart, the only time she’d shown it to anyone since her arrival in Aves.

“Don’t try to lie to me.” Sarah kept her voice quiet. “This is a goblin-stone; it will burn if you lie.” She tucked the gem beneath her shift. “And yes, it works even with the Pax Deorum in effect—the magic is intrinsic in the stone.”

The poor guard’s eyes were bulging with fear now, and she’d begun to tremble.

“Your Majesty, it was just—we didn’t mean anything—he only wanted company!” Fayannah’s control broke, and she began to sob. “He’s so lonely, and I was so afraid, because of the storm—because of the voices! When I was with him, the voices weren’t so horrible!”

Sarah let out an impatient sigh. “Just tell me,” she said. “When, where, how often.”

“There’s rooms that aren’t in use, even with so many people staying here,” the girl said, words tumbling out. “We’d use those—never the same room twice. We’ve been together four—no, five times since the storm.”

“How did it start?” asked Sarah. “When?”

“The night after the child was born,” Fayannah said miserably. “You know, he hasn’t lain with his wife since early in her pregnancy? The midwives counseled against it. Then their household came here, and he’s not being allowed to stay with her. Her ladyship Alaemon is quartered with the queen. Turnix was ordered to stay with their household in the east wing.”

“The first time?” Sarah pressed. “How did it happen?”

“He was on his way back to his quarters the night after the birth. We crossed paths when I was on my way back from a few hours’ liberty—I’ve been mostly off duty, to recover from when we rode out to meet their party. He inquired after my health and thanked me for seeing his wife to safety. I asked him about the baby. He said he’d barely seen her, hadn’t even held her—his own daughter, and they won’t let him touch her. I could see he was upset, so I invited him to take a drink with me. He—I—it just happened so suddenly. One moment we were talking, the next we were in each other’s arms.” With a shaky hitch of her breath, the young guard said, “Please, Your Majesty, I beg you—please believe we meant nothing by this, beyond a need for pleasure and comfort.”

“And after that first night?”

“He sent messages for me to the guards’ barracks, telling me where to meet him.”

“How did he send the messages? Weren’t you afraid of being found out?”

“He sent them by a mute dwarf,” said Fayannah. “Written in code on tiny scraps of paper.”

“Including the night of Lenia’s murder?”

“I never learned his name.” Fayannah nodded, eyes brimming again. “The dwarf’s name. They’re saying he murdered her.”

“What time?” Sarah pressed.

“I received the message from Turnix at midnight,” the guard said. “I went to him right away.”

“You made love?”

“We were always quick about it,” Fayannah mumbled. “I was back in the barracks less than an later, and he returned to his quarters.”

No wonder Turnix had looked so harried when he’d come running into the Eagle Suite, Sarah realized. He’d probably been in bed, sound asleep, snoring in post-coital bliss when the alarm had been raised.

“After the dwarf gave you the message, where did he go?”

“Back to the—” A look of comprehension dawned in Fayannah’s eyes. “Oh! We’d had a late dinner in the barracks, a little celebration because the storm ended. There was food left over, and I told the dwarf he could help himself to whatever he wanted. The maids hadn’t come by to clear the tables.”

“Where?”

“In the guards’ mess.”

“Is there a separate way in and out of the mess hall?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Fayannah, looking baffled.

“Show me.”

Fayannah wiped her face on her sleeve, and with her composure restored, she led Sarah from the small room. The guards’ barracks—a hodgepodge of sleeping quarters, common rooms, a lavatory, and the mess hall—formed a rough square, bounded on all four sides by corridors. The main entrance to the barracks was in one corridor. The mess hall could be accessed internally from the main entrance—and also through a separate door in another hallway. Sarah could see what Hoggle had done: he’d left the mess through the second exit, turned left, and then left again, which instead of taking him to his own quarters, had taken him into the corridor that led to the south wing. In the freezing cold night, one dimly-lit corridor looked very like another, and Sarah could only imagine the confusion that must have arisen in his amnesiac mind when he’d found himself in the dark, unfamiliar rooms.

At the moment, the mess was empty and quiet. Sarah asked Fayannah, “Did you keep those messages?”

Fayannah gave a vehement shake of her head. “No, Your Majesty, I burned them right away.” Red-rimmed blue eyes pleaded with Sarah to believe her.

Sarah didn’t relax her stern countenance. She said, “It might be necessary for you to testify about all this before Petronia.”

“This will ruin me,” the guard said. “And Turnix may deny it all anyway.”

“That remains to be seen. Now, go to your rooms. Say nothing of this to anyone, unless I send for you.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” And the girl scurried away with a furtive, almost sideways movement, like a crab.

(viii)

Sarah took the long way back to the southwest wing. She could think better when her body was in motion, and Fayannah had given her a lot to consider.

Sarah had no doubts that Turnix, if confronted, would deny everything Fayannah had said—and Turnix would not be duped by Sarah’s lie about the Dragon’s Heart.

_What a weasel_. If the midwives had ordered Turnix and Alaemon to abstain from sex during the later months of Alaemon’s pregnancy, there might have been a very good reason for it. Yes, Turnix had endured bitter cold and mortal terror during the journey to Phoebetria, but Alaemon had been cold and afraid, too, and also suffering through the agony of childbirth. The storm had been nightmarish, yes, but it must have been as frightening for Alaemon as anyone else—if not more so. Perhaps it was cruel for Petronia to separate the couple, but could Turnix have expected anything different? Alaemon was a daughter of the premier Tinamotean family, and she’d just presented the clade with another girl—naturally, she was going to be fawned over. Turnix had only provided the raw material for his wife’s triumph.

Sarah’s brows pulled together in a black scowl. She disliked cheaters, but any man who would step out on his mate twenty-four hours after she’d given birth under such harrowing circumstances was a particular brand of asshole. As a married woman and mother, Sarah found it impossible to pity him. Oh, she could understand why any man would grow weary of a woman like Alaemon, but she didn’t think that gave Turnix carte blanche to cheat on his wife.

She reserved more sympathy for Fayannah, who in all honesty should have known better, but who had the excuse of being young and foolish. Turnix was a prime sleazeball, Sarah thought, for having taken advantage of the girl’s gullibility.

The horrible thing was that none of this mattered. With the notes destroyed, there was no evidence for Hoggle’s errand. If Petronia had been willing to disregard such obvious physical proof as Hoggle’s being too short to reach the top of Lenia’s head, she certainly wouldn’t consider the possibility that Hoggle had been confused by the layout of the guards’ barracks. Sarah would gain nothing; worse, she’d make a fool of herself if she took this sordid tale to the queen, and Petronia would only be further enraged by the insult to her husband’s family.

Sarah’s inquiry had accomplished one thing, though—she now knew Turnix couldn’t have been the killer—Fayannah had provided him with an inadvertent alibi for the time of Lenia’s death. Sarah scratched Alaemon’s husband off her mental list of suspects. It was time to tackle the rest.

**To be continued…**


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-13-17.

_Ten_

When Sarah melted out of the wall like a wraith, the young man gawped at her goblin face with a terrified expression. She put a silencing finger to her lips, the universal gesture for _Shh_. His eyes darted about the room, looking for an escape, but Sarah was across the floor in three long bounds, grabbing the nearest chair and shoving it beneath the doorknob. There was no other exit.

“I know about you and Lenia,” she said, her voice low, spitting out the words like bullets from a gun.

His mouth quivered, and he began sobbing. He folded into the nearest chair, head in his hands, body wracked with convulsions.

Sarah stood before him, her face impassive, hands folded on the gray skirt of her gown. She’d chosen her most severe dress for this confrontation: slate gray bodice and overskirt, with a black stomacher panel and black trim. The underskirt was plain white. It was one of the gowns she’d made herself, but the queen’s seamstresses had pulled it apart and retailored it with such flawless precision that the silk bodice appeared to be painted onto Sarah’s torso. With her hair yanked back away from her face and jewelry of black onyx adorning her ears and neck, Sarah once again felt like a dominatrix, which she hoped would create an aura of absolute command.

Moments ticked past. The young dancer seemed to realize Sarah was not going anywhere. In slow stages, he pulled his self-control back together. The shaking stopped, then the crying, and at last, the sniffling. Sarah could tell from his blotchy face and swollen red eyes that he’d been doing little but weep for the past three days.

She put his age at about twenty or twenty-two years old, right around Lenia’s age. Sarah knew he was not now at his best, but she still could not comprehend what had drawn a vital spirit like Lenia to this milksop fellow. Beneath the thick red hair, his face was soft, unformed, almost childish. His dark red eyebrows had been plucked and shaped to give them high arches, but that did little to add character to his expression. His mouth was wide, full-lipped, but lacking in sensual authority, emphasizing his weak, indecisive look.

“What’s your name?” asked Sarah, when she judged he was in a condition to speak.

“Dr-Drazen, Your Majesty. Drazen of the Clade Estrida.”

“You’re a dancer here in the palace.” Sarah made it a statement, not a question.

“Yes, Your Majesty, a royal dancer. Intermediate Class.”

“How long had you been having an affair with Lenia?”

“About… almost three years, Your Majesty.”

“And were you sleeping together that whole time?” asked Sarah.

Drazen shook his head. He drew from a pocket in his trousers a handkerchief—a ridiculous thing, Sarah thought: Easter-egg lavender and edged with black lace. A bird was embroidered in one corner of the thing—a seabird of some type, based on its silhouette, a gull or perhaps an albatross. He dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose.

“Only for the past eight months,” he said, tucking away the handkerchief. “This past spring. But we’d been courting before then.”

“In obvious secrecy,” Sarah remarked.

“Of course.” His voice shook. “She’s a Tinamotean, and one of the new queen’s favorites. We thought, back when it began… well, the old queen was still alive. My mother has a long-standing land grant that dates back to Queen Numida. Our family is good. In the days of Queen Eucissa, my mother could have arranged a marriage with Lenia’s family. But now the Estridians have lost our influence. We knew the Tinamoteans were in ascendance, but we had no idea Petronia would marry one of them so quickly. Queen Eucissa wasn’t even laid out on her bier. It was obscene, how fast—”

“Mind yourself,” Sarah ordered him. “A queen’s private affairs are not for you to determine. Or judge.”

Chastened, Drazen said, “Of course, Your Majesty. Please forgive me.”

“Go on.”

“It’s no secret Queen Petronia hates us. Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama have become her closest advisors—the queen would never let Lenia, or anyone else from that family, marry an Estridian. When Eucissa was alive, Lenia and I hoped… but that was foolish.”

Sarah softened her tone by a fraction. “Queen Eucissa was an old woman, and she must have been physically in decline when you and Lenia began courting. Lenia was a prominent courtier, and you’re an Intermediate Class dancer. You had to have known that a match between you would never be allowed.”

“We couldn’t help it,” he said, vibrating with misery. “We were in love.”

_So were unnumbered fools from the dawn of time_ , Sarah thought. She understood Drazen’s pain too well—there once had been a time when Sarah had thought she and Jareth would be always apart. But they’d only had to contend with tangled emotions, not tangled politics.

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asked. “Any of the other dancers?”

“Nobody. Well, some might have guessed I had a lover, but they wouldn’t know who. It’s hard to fool Ramina, my partner—but I knew better than to let on. It’s no easy life, being a royal dancer. There’s no prestige until you reach Advanced Class, and every step up the ranks feels like it takes forever. Dancing is one of the only crafts where men are allowed, and the competition for places and advancement is savage. The other men would discredit me in a heartbeat if they’d known I was in love with Lenia.”

So that explained their obsessive discretion, Sarah realized.

“We never… we never met in the same place twice.” _Shades of Turnix and Fayannah_. “The palace is enormous. You used the service tunnels to get here, so you know how easy it is. There are so many empty rooms. In the winter, the entire north wing is unused. In the summer, the south wing is empty. There’s whole entire suites that are completely vacant. Lenia works—worked—in the palace, so she knew every corridor, every tunnel, every back passageway. I think she loved that part of it, finding secret places for us. We met, you know, when she was organizing entertainment for the old queen’s birthday. That was before Eucissa… she had to be propped up to be able to watch us, I think she slept through most of it, but everyone pretended she was awake.”

Sarah didn’t interrupt his rambling reminiscence, hoping she’d glean something useful from it.

“Sometimes the singers and dancers staged a masque, an entertainment with role-playing and wonderful effects. Petronia thinks they’re garish and unrefined, but her mother loved them. Ramina and I were part of the masque for the birthday celebration. We were all dressed up as different birds, representing love, fidelity, beauty, things like that. I don’t suppose there’ll be any more, now that Petronia’s queen. Lenia was in her element that day, so lovely. She almost could have been a dancer herself. A few days later, she sought me out. We’d talk and sing songs and tell each other stories. It was so innocent at first.” The fleshy mouth trembled, and Sarah glared at him. Drazen compressed his lips into a tight line until the spasm of grief had passed.

“We courted for two full years before… before. I’d never had a woman, until her.” Drazen gasped, fighting for emotional control. “It was last springtime. The winter weather had finally broken for the year. We slipped out into the gardens one night. There were new flowers, and the smell was so heady. The stars were so close you could touch them. It was magic, pure magic. I knew we shouldn’t, but Lenia was so beautiful. We couldn’t stop ourselves.”

Before he succumbed to another bout of full-scale weeping, Sarah asked, “Where were you the night she died?”

“I was waiting for her, Your Majesty. It was difficult to meet, with so many people in the palace, but she knew the right places. The northwest wing was safest for us. The Heron Suite is unused right now—it’s due for renovation next spring. There are dozens of deserted rooms. I was waiting for her there. I swear it to you, on the Goddess Herself.”

“How would she arrange your meetings?” asked Sarah.

“She knew my dormitory,” said Drazen. “She’d leave a token in my room, usually when I was practicing. She could get in through the service corridors, in and out very quickly. She usually tucked a note into a piece of fruit. She could do this so perfectly, you’d never even see the mark where she’d cut into it. I learned to keep my belongings tidy, so I’d notice right away if something was new or changed.”

“Do you have any of these notes?”

“Only the last one. I’d burn the note and eat the fruit, so that nobody would know.” Drazen reached into another pocket and produced a tiny shred of parchment. “Another thing she’d do is crack a nut into perfect halves, take out the meat, put the note inside, and glue the shell back together. I usually have a dish of nuts and dried fruits in my room. The day the storm was ending, I came back after morning practice and thought something looked different about the dish. I found this in a walnut shell.”

Sarah held up the scrap to the light from the nearest lantern. Inked on the parchment was the silhouette of a heron: the long neck, the long pointed bill, the small crest on the head.   And beneath the bird tiny ciphers: _M4R5L_.

“Fourth floor?” said Sarah. “The _R_ and _L_ mean _right_ and _left_ , of course. The _M_ is for _midnight_. That’s a ridiculously simple code, Drazen. A child could interpret this.”

He didn’t argue with that. “Heron Suite, fourth floor, right at the top of the stairs, fifth door on the left. At midnight.”

Drazen and Lenia had been lucky, Sarah thought, that nobody had discovered one of these notes. On the other hand, Lenia’s stealthy mode of delivery had been clever. Still, it only would have been a matter of time before the affair came to light.

“Had you been together since her engagement was announced?” Sarah made no effort to soften the brutal question.

“No.” The lips quivered again, and the eyes filmed with tears. “I didn’t think we ever would be, either.”

“Did you have any inkling of the engagement? Did she?”

“No.” Anger crept into Drazen’s voice, and he shook his head. “I had no idea. Neither did she. She was opposed to it, of course.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No. But I knew.”

Sarah let that one slide. “What did you think when you received that last message from her?”

“I was astonished, but it was like her—daring. She waited until the day the storm ended. Everyone went to bed early that night—we were all exhausted. I’d barely had any sleep because of the cold and the wind.” He shuddered. “I thought—well, I thought she wanted… that she wanted a chance to say… to say goodbye.”

Possibly, Sarah thought, possibly Lenia had wanted more than a teary farewell. She had taken the trouble to wash herself thoroughly. She might have planned one last night of passion before the final, bitter, inevitable separation.

With a deep breath, Drazen said, “So, I went. I left before midnight. The palace was so quiet—everyone except the guards was sleeping. I took my usual route and found the room she’d indicated. I waited. And waited. The room was freezing—I didn’t dare light a fire. I had only a single candle in a lantern. I found some blankets in a chest and wrapped up in them. I sat on the bed, waiting. Sometimes Lenia might be delayed a bit; that wasn’t unusual. Or she might stall deliberately, not wanting to be always in the same place at the same time. But this time, it was so long. I finally had to lie down—I was so tired. I thought she’d wake me when she came in. Next thing I knew, I jumped awake, and the candle was almost burned down. Four hours had passed. I thought something must have prevented her from coming altogether—there’s no telling what demands Petronia might have made. I couldn’t stay—the room was bitterly cold; my candle was burned down almost to nothing; I was afraid of being discovered. So I put the blankets away and went back to my dormitory room. I fell asleep right away. I didn’t learn what had happened until I went to morning practice, and Ramina told me.”

“When Lenia was found, she was wearing a gown like the ones dancers wear, and a cloak to match,” said Sarah. “Whose idea was that?”

“Hers,” said Drazen. “She wanted to look like one of the dancers, if anyone saw her from a distance. That dark purple is the color the Advanced Class wear. They have a lot more prestige than the rest of us, and they’re more at liberty to come and go as they please. Nobody would stop or question her.”

_And her shoes_ , Sarah thought. The shoes with the felt-covered soles would have muffled Lenia’s characteristic footsteps. She must have stored the dress and cloak separately from her other clothes, so that they would not smell of her habitual scent. Lenia had taken every precaution in her affair with Drazen, but even in an enormous palace, such assignations could not be kept secret forever.

“Since she died, has anyone confronted you?” asked Sarah.

The red head shook again. “No, Your Majesty.”

That told Sarah two things were possible. One—the lovers’ discretion had been absolute and nobody knew about the affair; or two—that someone _did_ know about the affair, but with Hoggle as a convenient scapegoat, Drazen wasn’t being questioned or accused. Sarah felt almost certain Petronia didn’t know. The queen would have seized any opportunity to discredit the hated Estridians, even one so minor as this tremble-mouthed dancer. For the same reason, Sarah believed Gannet and Jacama hadn’t known either.

Sarah wished there was some way to confirm Drazen’s alibi. Lenia’s engagement had given him an obvious motive for murder, but even if he’d had it in him to kill—which Sarah very much doubted—wouldn’t the obvious target have been Prince Cerastis? It wouldn’t have been difficult to learn where the Varanese contingent was quartered, and Drazen was familiar with the palace’s service corridors. But she couldn’t imagine the dancer swatting a fly, let alone taking a blunt instrument to the top of someone’s skull.

“Did she have enemies?” asked Sarah. “Was there anyone she told you about, someone she was afraid of, someone threatening her, perhaps?”

“No, Lenia wasn’t afraid of anyone.” Drazen made a scornful little noise in his throat. “Enemies? The entire Clade Estrida is—was—her enemy.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“My cousin, Anser, hated her.”

Anser—the husband of Lady Vibiana, Petronia’s niece. A man who might become king if Petronia was not able to bear a healthy daughter and the line of succession passed to Petronia’s younger sister. Sarah wondered if Anser knew about Petronia’s purported plans to have the line of succession moved to her new husband’s family. That would provide a motive, right there.

“Did it ever seem like he might act on that hatred?” Sarah inquired.

Now Drazen grew sarcastic. “If Anser intended to commit murder, he didn’t share those plans with me.”

“Did he hate her for any particular reason?”

“The same reason he hates all Tinamoteans. He said they’re upstarts. He’d say crude things about Lenia, say she was carrying her head so high her neck would stretch until it was a foot long.”

“Did you defend her when he’d say things like that?” asked Sarah.

“No, of course not. I didn’t encourage him, though.”

“So, do you think Anser guessed about your affair with her?”

“If he did, he never said,” Drazen answered.

Her questions exhausted, Sarah stared at the young man for a few moments, her gaze boring into him. She knew it was irrational to hate him, but part of her could not help resenting him: if not for the affair, Lenia might not have been in that corridor that night. True, if the murder had been premeditated, a determined killer would have found another opportunity. But Sarah blamed Drazen nevertheless. She debated telling him that Lenia looked as though she’d been on her way to see him when she died, but that struck her as pointlessly cruel.

Instead, she ordered him, “Say nothing of this. Keep quiet.”

He ducked his head in humiliation. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was nothing more to say, so Sarah left the way she’d come, slipping through the concealed door into the service corridor.

(ii)

Sarah would have liked to confront Prince Cerastis that same day, but she knew from Queen Inula that the royal family from Varan was holding a private mourning ceremony for Lenia. In Varanese culture, an engagement—even one that hadn’t lasted a week—created a bond of kinship. Queen Petronia’s stewards had arranged the ritual, which King Tylas would be attending in his wife’s stead. Sarah hated wasting even half a day, but she couldn’t afford to antagonize the Varanese. Bad enough that she had gotten herself so thoroughly on Petronia’s wrong side.

The state of mourning, however, did give her a pretext for approaching the young prince. The next morning, garbed in somber black, Sarah paid a call to the Shrike Suite and requested a formal audience with Cerastis. She brought with her some small gifts—a beautifully bound and gilt book of folk tales from Aves, a silver cloak pin shaped into the wise owl of the Tinamoteans, and a basket of candied nuts and dried fruits.

Before Sarah could meet with Cerasits, she had to spend a dutiful half-hour with his parents, King Colobrid and Queen Galvodea, both in dark green, which Sarah gathered was the mourning color of Varan. She made polite conversation, expressing all the conventional regret and shock that a murder engendered. Sarah found it difficult to read much into the two monarchs: their expressions and body language bordered on reptilian. They might have been angry, grief-stricken, resentful, or perhaps merely bored. In her turn, Sarah was sure to keep her impatience well-concealed. She felt as though she were attending an afternoon tea with two particularly tedious university professors.

At last, King Colobrid rose to his feet and summoned his younger son.

“The Goblin Queen wishes to express her condolences,” he announced. Queen Galvodea stood also, and the pair left their son alone with Sarah.

Prince Cerastis made an elegant bow to Sarah.

“I’m honored, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Please, sit.” Sarah gestured to the things she’d brought, lying on the table before him. “And allow me to offer you these gifts—I realize they can’t undo what’s happened, but I wanted you to have some token of remembrance. The owl is the symbol of the Clade Tinamotus, and the book is traditional folk tales from Aves.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Cerastis looked more shocked and bewildered than grief-stricken. He’d barely had a chance to get to know his fiancée, and now she was gone. Now that Sarah could speak with him one-on-one, she realized he was even younger than she’d first assumed—no older than sixteen, perhaps as young as fourteen. Beneath the cropped, flax-colored hair, his face had strong, clean lines. His skin was good; his eyes gray, their gaze direct but not intrusive.

Sarah took the seat opposite him. Her black dress was more sober than severe; she’d softened the effect with pearl jewelry and hair gathered into a caul of silver, studded with more pearls. Still, she sat straight, not wanting to diminish her sense of authority.

“You know Lenia was my hostess for the coronation,” she opened.

“Yes, I saw you with her quite often,” answered Cerastis. Sarah liked his voice—already he spoke in low adult tones, but with a melodious quality, like a fine wooden instrument.

“We’d grown to be good friends,” Sarah went on. “Her death was shocking and painful to me.”

He nodded.

“So, I wanted to give you my condolences in person, because I loved her like a sister. I also know what an awkward ordeal this must be for you. Am I right in thinking your engagement to Lenia was unexpected?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he answered. “I knew about the plans for my sister’s betrothal, but Mother and Father had said nothing to me about plans for mine.”

“Was the news unwelcome to you?”

“It was a surprise, Your Majesty. Of course I was honored to be betrothed into the Clade Tinamotus, to be part of the treaty between Aves and Varan. I’ve always trusted that Mother and Father would arrange a creditable marriage for me. I only didn’t expect it to happen so soon.”

“You would have had to live here, in Aves.”

“Yes, I understood that. I would have missed my home, of course, but Phoebetria is a magnificent city.” His expression grew wistful. “I was excited at the thought of living here, Your Majesty. The day after our betrothal was announced, Lenia’s grandmother, the Baroness Gannet, showed me and my parents the house where Lenia and I would have lived. It was magnificent. I was looking forward to traveling around the countryside in the spring, learning about the rest of the kingdom.”

“Were you anxious about the wedding?”

“Naturally, Your Majesty.” Prince Cerastis didn’t seem at all ashamed to admit that. “Newness and change are always frightening, but I was being accorded a significant honor. It was my responsibility to face that future, whatever it held.”

“How well had you gotten to know Lenia?”

“We weren’t often in each other’s company, Your Majesty. I had only a few occasions to speak with her, and those always in the presence of others. But she was a beautiful, intelligent woman, a credit to her clade and her kingdom. I would have been honored to be her husband.”

“Did she say much about herself?”

“We only spoke about the home we’d share. She talked to me about daily life in the palace, what it’s like attending on the queen. We talked about our families. But nothing truly personal.”

Sarah lowered her voice. “Had you any concerns about physical intimacy with her?”

The gaze of the frank, gray eyes didn’t waver. “None, Your Majesty. I assumed, since the lady was older than me, that she would guide me in her preferred pleasures.”

Sarah gave him a warm, motherly smile. “You’re very wise, then.” She let a discreet moment slide past. “How did you learn about her death? You must have heard—and I’m sorry if you haven’t—that she died here in the Shrike Suite, in a corridor in the lowest level.”

Cerastis nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty, I had heard that. It’s dreadful to consider, isn’t it? I was asleep in my own room. My older brother and his wife had the suite across the hallway from mine, and Ramphoreon is a light sleeper. He heard the commotion of the guards and went downstairs. The—her body had already been taken away, but the guards told Ramphoreon what had happened. He came back and spoke with my parents, first, and then they woke me and told me as well.” His features tightened with pain.

“I’m sorry; that’s horrible news to wake up to.”

“It wouldn’t have been any easier if they’d waited for morning,” Cerastis answered.

Sarah regarded him. His young face lacked the expressionlessness of his parents; if he had lied about any of this, it didn’t show. His body had been at ease the entire conversation, his gaze and voice steady. There had been no attempts at evasion, and he’d answered her questions with candor and without even an instant of hesitation. He’d been schooled to have excellent manners, that much was obvious, but the answers he’d given her, while perhaps too formal, had nevertheless demonstrated a quiet strength of character.

It was such a pity, Sarah thought, that Lenia had been so besotted with the Estridian dancer. If she’d given Cerastis half a chance, she might have found herself with a husband of real quality, especially once the prince had grown up a bit more. One thing was certain: Sarah didn’t think he was the killer. There were too many people who could corroborate his whereabouts at the time of Lenia’s death; anyway, Cerastis had too much to gain from the marriage. Even if he’d found out about the affair with Drazen—which Sarah doubted, since even the people closest to Lenia didn’t seem to have known—she thought he’d be more apt to turn a blind eye to it, accepting the situation as Lenia’s prerogative.

“Indeed not.” Sarah stood, indicating the conversation was at an end. “Again, please accept my condolences, Cerastis. And I must say, you’re holding up remarkably well under these circumstances.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He stood also, bowing again. As if on cue, the door opened, and the Varanese monarchs came to collect their son.

(iii)

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” asked Queen Inula.

“He struck me as fairly transparent,” Sarah told her. “If he was lying, he was very good at it.”

Marsilea added, “Anyway, he didn’t have much motive for wanting Lenia dead. Unless he was having an extraordinary case of wedding jitters.”

The three women were in the northeast wing, conferring in one of Inula’s private rooms. Sarah had not told the other two women about Lenia’s affair with Drazen, and she was hoping their investigation would succeed without having to disclose that information.

“What about you?” asked Sarah. “How did things go at Petronia’s salon?” The same day as the Varanese memorial service for Lenia, Queen Petronia had held another salon in her suite, one to which Sarah pointedly had not been invited. Queen Inula and her daughter-in-law both had attended. Sarah had asked them to observe how the other women were behaving, and to engage in conversation with the most likely suspects, if discretion permitted. “I don’t suppose we can rule out Petronia herself.”

Queen Inula shook her head. “The queen sleeps with maids inside and outside her room, unless she’s with King Tylas. There’s very little chance she could have done something as extraordinary as go down to a basement-level corridor in the middle of the night without it being observed and remarked on.”

Marsilea said, “Besides, Petronia’s plans for Lenia…” She looked at her mother-in-law for guidance, unsure of how much detail she should divulge.

“Yes, there is the question of the succession,” Inula said in a hushed voice.

“How widely known are the queen’s plans?” asked Sarah.

“The High Council hasn’t met,” Inula revealed. “From what I understand, they won’t meet until after the Pax Deorum lifts, because no law or policy would be considered binding if it were voted on during that time. But the women on the High Council were all chosen for their loyalty to the queen. None of them would offer serious opposition.”

Sarah likewise kept her voice almost to a whisper. “But would she need to have a reason for disinheriting her sister?”

“She might not take that drastic a step,” Inula responded. “She might begin by appointing a council of regents to care for her child, in the event she doesn’t survive the birth. Her husband’s family would be the most logical choices.”

“And if the child doesn’t live? Or is a boy?” Marsilea whispered.

Inula sighed, “Well, that’s getting ahead of ourselves. I suspect one of the first things Petronia will do after the Pax Deorum is to have a seer scry the outcome of her pregnancy. It’s a notoriously dicey thing, but she’s far enough along now so that the sex of the child can be determined. Its health is another matter. The best seers in Aves predicted a healthy girl when she was carrying Princess Cassina, and we all know how that turned out.”

“Assuming Petronia does change the line of succession, that would give anyone in the Clade Estrida motive for murder, especially those close to the throne,” Sarah said. “Even without an announcement, Petronia’s plans must have become clear when Lenia’s engagement was announced. She was the obvious candidate for future queen—she was young, healthy, and intelligent. A royal husband would have given her added status.”

“Which gives Lady Vibiana more motive than anyone,” said Inula. “Right now, her mother is Petronia’s heir presumptive. That makes Vibiana second in the current line of succession.”

“And Vibiana’s accession would make her husband, Anser, king,” added Marsilea.

Sarah said, “We shouldn’t rule out Alaemon, who had a more personal motive. She was incredibly jealous of Lenia, and it looked to me like the plans for her sister’s marriage incensed her.”

Queen Inula said, “I spent an hour talking to Petronia. Alaemon was nearby the entire time. From their conversation, I gathered that Alaemon has a maid and a nurse who sleep in the same room as her. Alaemon is nursing the baby herself, but the nurse is there to burp the baby, rock her, change her diapers. It seems as though Alaemon sleeps when the baby sleeps. I don’t doubt she’d be capable of murder, if she had the right motive—she has a bad temper and a shrewish disposition. But again, there’s no way she could have left her room and gone down to the basement without creating a stir, especially five days after giving birth.”

“But she does have motive,” Sarah said, thinking out loud. “With Lenia dead, she’s Lady Jacama’s sole heir.”

“True,” said Inula. “It’s surely not an accident that when Alaemon married Turnix, old Queen Eucissa rusticated the pair of them. The grant of property was generous, but it’s far enough away from Phoebetria so that Alaemon couldn’t be often at court.”

Marsilea said, “I spent most of the afternoon with Lady Vibiana. We both had sewing to work on. It’s not always easy to read people, but she seemed genuinely upset about Lenia’s murder. She kept saying things like, ‘I can’t believe she’s dead.’ A few times, she was shaking so badly she kept jabbing herself with the needle. I don’t think it was an act. In all honesty, I think she’s more upset about not dancing anymore. Other than the murder, it was all she could talk about. She even started crying at one point.”

“Not dancing?” Sarah frowned. “At all?”

“No, her duties to Petronia don’t leave her with any time to train. She didn’t say as much, but I could tell how much this hurts her. Dancing was her life. She talked a lot about how she and Anser both loved it, more than anything. Now they can scarcely find time to be together, let alone train.”

Sarah sat up straighter. “Are they being kept apart? Forced to sleep in separate quarters?”

Marsilea said, “Yes, Anser is now quartered in the southeast wing with the dancers. Lady Vibiana’s afraid he’s going to pair up with another partner and start performing again without her. Lady Vibiana lives now with the other ladies-in-waiting in the Eagle Suite.”

“So Anser and Vibiana can’t have sex,” Sarah blurted.

If her lack of delicacy startled the other two women, they didn’t show it. “Only when Vibiana has liberty, which from what I can see isn’t often,” said Queen Inula.

Marsilea said, “Is it so surprising? The last thing Queen Petronia would want is for another child born in her sister’s line. What better way to prevent it?”

Inula nodded. “After Petronia gives birth—assuming the child survives, is healthy, and is a girl—it’s possible Anser and Vibiana will be allowed to cohabit again, especially if the High Council votes to alter the line of succession. Although if Petronia gives birth to a healthy girl, she might decide it’s more prudent not to take so radical a measure—it may depend on how much she needs her sister as an ally. But she might continue to keep Anser and Vibiana apart, as a general safeguard.”

Sarah argued, “Petronia will still need another option, in the event of something unexpected happening.” She refrained from making the crude “heir and a spare” argument, but she couldn’t help thinking along those lines.

Marsilea said, “It’s true that the birth of a girl will ease the pressure over the succession, but until Petronia gives birth, her sister is still her heir.”

Inula added, “And even a healthy girl will need time to grow into womanhood. Sarah, you’re correct in thinking Petronia will want some kind of contingency in place. It’s my belief, based on speculation and what I know of Petronia’s personality, that she’ll want a contingency that doesn’t include her sister’s line.”

Sarah asked, “Where was Lady Vibiana the night of the murder? Can that be verified?”

Marsilea said, “I didn’t ask her directly, but all the ladies-in-waiting share quarters.”

“Do they share rooms?” asked Sarah.

Inula said, “No, each woman has her own bedchamber. The rooms are arranged in suites, four bedrooms with a common lavatory and sitting area.”

“So Vibiana could have gone out late at night without being observed,” Sarah said.

“More easily than either Alaemon or Petronia,” said Inula.

Sarah asked, “What about the servants? What are their schedules like?”

“Most of them work in shifts,” said Inula. “The early shift begins four or five hours after midnight and ends around noon. There’s another shift that begins two hours before noon and ends in the evening. A third shift begins two hours after noon and ends about two hours before midnight. The final shift begins before the evening meal and ends two hours after midnight. So there’s a good deal of overlap.”

Sarah said, “And about two hours in the early morning when nobody’s working at all.”

“Yes, during those hours, if Petronia needs something, she has her own ladies-in-waiting. Other people can send for a guard.” Inula added, “Don’t forget how exhausted everyone was the night the storm ended. I believe all the palace servants were ordered to go to bed by midnight, no matter their usual shift, and the first shift was allowed to sleep later by one hour.”

“Who makes those decisions?” asked Sarah. “Petronia?”

“Oh, no, her chief steward determines the servants’ schedules.”

“So that night, there were even fewer people about than usual,” said Sarah.

“So it would seem,” agreed Inula.

Marsilea put in, “What I don’t understand is how Lenia could be taken unawares in that corridor. I went down there this morning and had a look for myself. There’s nowhere anyone could have hidden. And it’s a stone floor down there—footsteps make noise. I was trying to be quiet, but there’s a fair bit of echo, and I’m sure anyone could have heard me coming, even from a distance. How could Lenia not have known someone was behind her?”

“And how did they know where she’d be going?” said Inula. “How did they know to follow her at such an odd hour?”

Marsilea said, “And where was Lenia herself going? Nobody’s come forward to say they were expecting her.” She asked Sarah, “Was anything found on her body—any messages or correspondence?”

“Nothing,” said Sarah. That much, at least, was true.

Inula said, “We also should think about what happened to the weapon. Nothing was found in the corridor, was there?”

“No,” said Sarah, her mind racing, cursing herself for not having thought of these things sooner. “And there was no weapon on the dwarf, either—not that I’d expect there to be.” She hopped up to her feet. “Come with me,” she said to Marsilea. “I want to have another look in that hallway.”

(iv)

The two women found the basement-level corridor deserted. Perhaps because the purported murder suspect—Hoggle—was in custody, Petronia saw no need to post guards at the site where Lenia’s body had been found. Besides, the corridor was freezing cold and poorly lit, which alone would discourage lingering. Sarah exhaled hard, watching her breath puff out before her face.

As if Marsilea’s thoughts had run along the same line, she scanned the hallway to make sure nobody was around. “Let’s do this while everyone’s at dinner.”

They examined the entire stretch of corridor, but as Marsilea had noted, the stone walls were unbroken, save where the stairs went up into the Shrike Suite.

“Someone coming down the stairs would have been noticeable,” Sarah pointed out. “There’s lanterns on either side of the entrance to the stairwell, and one across from it, so this area’s better lit than the rest of the corridor.” She and Marsilea paced up and down the hallway, but they found nothing on the stone floor.

Frustrated, Sarah stood hugging her cape about her shoulders, once again berating herself for not having thought to search for the murder weapon the night Lenia was killed. The perpetrator had had several days now to dispose of whatever had been used. She tried to project herself into the mind of a murderer. What was the best way to get rid of a blood-stained weapon? The palace, though enormous, didn’t seem to offer a lot of places where something like that would not, in time, be discovered. Even if someone tossed the thing out into the snow, it would be found in the spring. No, the best course would be to conceal the weapon somewhere it could be recovered, then disposed of at leisure after the scapegoat had been punished.

_I know what I’d do_ , Sarah thought. _I’d hide the weapon in a service corridor, in one of the less-used parts of the palace, then I’d sneak back in the middle of the night, retrieve the thing, and chuck it in a lake or something_. But any body of water would be frozen solid for several more months. Sarah tried to think of other means by which a weapon could be disposed of, then jolted with sudden insight.

“Where’s the nearest service corridor from here?”

Marsilea had been standing there, shivering, and now she blinked in surprise.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“Check the walls,” Sarah told her. “I’ll take this wall, you take the other one. We’ll start where Lenia was found and work from there.”

They returned to the foot of the stairs and worked backwards, examining the stone walls with careful scrutiny. It only took moments for Sarah to find a narrow groove in one section of stone.

“Here,” she said, tracing the frame with a fingertip. “Jareth and I went through one like this—it opened into the guards’ room in one of the gatehouses.” She searched at the base of the rectangle, but could not find a stone that would open the door.

“It might only open from inside,” said Marsilea.

“How would we get in there?” asked Sarah, frustrated.

“Go upstairs, find a service corridor entrance, and come down the inner stairs.”

“Do you think you can find the way?” Sarah asked her.

“Sure.”

“I’ll wait here,” Sarah told her.

Marsilea hurried away in a swirl of cape and skirts. Sarah waited, pacing the stone floor with impatience. The cold seemed to intensify when she was by herself with nothing to do, and Sarah realized she was ravenous as well. Trying to ignore the cold and her rumbling stomach, she took a lantern from a niche in the wall and moved slowly along the corridor, checking for anything she might have overlooked.

She was about to go looking for Marsilea—the cold had become intolerable—when without warning, the stone rectangle swung outward, causing Sarah to spring back. The door might not be often used, but its hinges were kept well-oiled. Marsilea stepped out into the hallway.

“It’s _freezing_ in there!” she hissed. “I’m sorry it took so long; I had to find an entrance to the service tunnels from a parlor upstairs, and by the time I found a staircase, I was in a different part of the Shrike Suite. I had to double back here to find the right corridor. But this is it.” She opened the door wider to let Sarah inside. Sarah noticed right away the tiny peephole through which the outer corridor could be observed. From the outside, the peephole was as invisible as the door itself.

Sarah said, “Go down to the end of the hall and come back, walking past this door. I want to re-create what might’ve happened to Lenia.”

Marsilea stepped out into the hallway, and Sarah drew shut the heavy door. She stood waiting by the peephole, and when Marsilea went past, she opened the door and stepped out of the service corridor. In two steps, she was behind the other woman, in the exact spot where Lenia had been killed.

Marsilea gave a violent shudder. “I didn’t even hear you,” she said, cringing.

“That’s how it might have happened,” Sarah said, her voice rising with excitement. The one question for which she still had no answer, though, was whether the killer had followed Lenia down here with the intent to murder, or if the killing had been more impulsive, prompted by unexpected opportunity. Had it been a deliberate political murder, or a crime of passion? And if the murder had not been planned, why had the killer been traveling via a subterranean service corridor in the small hours? Had he—or she—been keeping a late-night rendezvous, like Lenia herself?

“Let’s look for a weapon,” Sarah said, and Marsilea followed her through the door into the service corridor.

Marsilea hadn’t exaggerated about the cold. In addition, the light was almost non-existent, and Sarah could see that only every third or fourth lantern was lit, perhaps in an effort to conserve candles. Using the lantern she’d taken from outside, Sarah searched the corridor. The passageway was narrow and rather grim, the stones glittering with frost.

“I don’t see anything,” said Marsilea, scanning the floor, and Sarah could tell the other woman was on the verge of surrender. The corridor terminated at one end in a staircase that led upward.

“Let’s try the other direction,” Sarah insisted. “You keep checking the floors; I’ll check the walls.”

They went back as far as the hidden door, then ventured beyond that point. Marsilea kept her eyes on the floor while Sarah examined the walls on either side of them, searching for any irregularity. But there was nothing, just frost-covered stones and lanterns in niches. The few candles that were lit gave off scarcely any light and no heat whatsoever. This section of corridor also ended in a flight of stairs.

Discouraged, the two women stopped, looking up the steps into the gloom.

“We should go,” said Marsilea, fighting to keep her teeth from chattering. “I need hot soup and a hot fire.”

Sarah hated to give up, but she was so cold now that rational thought was beginning to shut down.

“That sounds wonderful,” she sighed, turning to stare down the stone passageway. “Did we close the door?”

“I think so. I don’t remember.”

Sarah felt mortified and foolish for dragging poor Marsilea through these wretched corridors on such a wild goose chase. “Go on upstairs,” she suggested. “I’ll catch up with you in Inula’s rooms.”

Marsilea didn’t argue. Sarah went in the opposite direction, finding that the door from the service corridor had in fact been shut. She made sure the latch was secure, then turned and went back in the direction Marsilea had taken.

Later, she would not be able to say for certain what had made her feet slow down, or what had drawn her eye to an unlit lantern in a niche. At first, it seemed an ordinary glass lantern, like any of the others. Sarah came to an abrupt halt, then reached out a gloved hand and lifted the lantern from its little spot in the stone wall. With a metallic clink, a length of chain tumbled down.

This lantern was larger than the others in the passageway, the heavy glass cylinder sitting in an elegant, carved metal base. More metalwork formed the cover that topped the cylinder, attached to which were three slender chains, coming together in a carved wooden handle, a utilitarian tool transformed into an object both decorative and charming. The handle and chains had been tucked into the niche behind the lantern so that they would not be visible to anyone passing by. This was the type of lantern that people used to navigate the palace after dark: there were small holes in the glass to permit airflow, and the lantern could be carried in one hand. The base of the lantern could hold a large candle.

Sarah compared this device to the one she had taken from the corridor outside. Lanterns in the service passageways were functional things, undecorated. Side by side, the differences between the two objects were obvious, but sitting in a niche, unlit, the more ornate lantern would be very easy to miss.

Using the light provided by her own lantern, Sarah examined her discovery. A thick, whitish layer coated the inside of the glass. The white stuff was unmistakable: hardened wax, splattered in a spray pattern up one side of the cylinder. Trembling, Sarah examined the lantern’s outer surface. The glass was clean, but the metal base bore a few tell-tale specks, reddish-brown in color. Dried blood.

Sarah turned the lantern upside down. Etched into the metal of the lantern’s underside was the outline of a bird: a seabird with a prodigious wingspan. An albatross.

(v)

“Is that the symbol of the Estridians?” asked Sarah.

The lantern sat on a small table between the three women, like an ominous talisman of evil. Sarah would not let them touch it, though she recognized the futility of this—it wasn’t as though fingerprinting technology existed in Aves.

She and Marsilea were huddled in blankets by the fire, eating soup that Inula had brought from her own dining room. Sarah hadn’t realized how long they’d been downstairs: she was so cold she had difficulty lifting the spoon to her mouth.

“The albatross is the symbol of the Estridians who come from Telluraves,” said Inula. The multitude of creases in her kind face appeared to have deepened, and even pretty young Marsilea looked older, haggard, her honey-gold complexion drained of color. “It’s because of their long association with the sea. Some branches of mainland Estridian families have adopted other symbols over the years, but always water birds.”

“Who in the palace would have a lantern etched with an albatross?” A rhetorical question to which Sarah already knew the answer.

“There’s a suite of rooms in the south wing that’s always kept ready for the queen’s sister and her family. The Duchess Melanitta doesn’t visit often, but nobody else uses those rooms. When Lady Vibiana came for Eucissa’s funeral, that’s where she and Anser stayed. After she was appointed a lady-in-waiting, she was moved into the suite with the queen’s other ladies, and Anser was moved to the southeast wing with the other dancers.”

“A definite downgrade in accommodations.”

“I believe Petronia’s argument was that the Albatross Suite is quite large, and fuel could be conserved by having the couple lodge elsewhere. That was before the storm, before any restrictions on firewood were imposed.”

“One of them could have taken the lantern when they moved.”

“It’s possible, yes,” said Inula.

“I think we know which one.” Marsilea spoke in a quiet voice.

Sarah could only imagine the insult to a member of the royal family, to be turned out of her rightful quarters and forced to occupy a tiny bedroom, to share a communal lavatory and living area. A lantern could be smuggled in a trunk, and it must be more attractive than whatever light fixtures were provided for the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Sarah could picture it in her mind, Lady Vibiana in her small room at night, taking solace from the dancing light provided by this elegant household instrument. If any of the servants had even noticed the thing was missing from the Albatross Suite, they would not have said anything, in deference to Vibiana’s rank.

“They were both tall enough,” said Queen Inula. “To say nothing of strong enough.”

“The chains on the lantern are about eighteen inches long,” Sarah added. “If you held all three together in your hand, you could get a good grip on the thing, and it would swing hard.” She pantomimed bringing the lantern around in an arc. Anser and Vibiana, with powerful arms and shoulders developed from years of acrobatic dancing, could both have delivered a lethal, crushing blow.

Marsilea said, “Assuming it was Vibiana, she must have been sneaking over to the dancers’ quarters to see Anser. That would explain what she was doing in the basement at such an hour. If her errand hadn’t been clandestine, she’d have used an upstairs corridor, and she would have had a guard escorting her.”

Inula added, “Think of the way Lenia’s body was found—she was facing in the direction of the door that led to the southeast wing. Anser would have been coming _from_ the southeast wing, and Lenia would have seen him—they’d have been walking towards each other.”

Sarah asked, “Is this enough proof to convince Petronia?”

Silence followed her question.

Inula said, “It’s more circumstantial than anything. We need to tread with care. Petronia’s relationship with her sister’s family may be acrimonious, but they are still her blood, not to mention her heirs. The possibility that the line of succession may be moved is right now nothing more than speculation. Nothing’s been decided yet. For that matter, Petronia is officially not even pregnant.”

That drew weary smiles from the two younger women.

Gazing at the lantern, Marsilea said, “We also have no way to prove that it’s not the weapon the dwarf used, that he killed Lenia and hid the lantern in the service tunnel, as improbable as it may be.”

Inula turned her gaze to the Goblin Queen. “Much as it pains me to say this, Petronia might choose to protect her niece out of her ire with you, Sarah. You’ve challenged her authority once too often, and that’s not an insult she’ll suffer easily.”

Sarah sank into her seat, allowing despair to wash over her. _Hoggle’s going to die, all because I couldn’t keep my damned mouth shut_. Her store of energy and strength, her determination of the past few days, drained away. Her eyes closed, and she dropped into a few moments of blank slumber. When she snapped back to awareness, Inula and Marsilea were discussing the plans for Lenia’s funeral.

(vi)

Sarah left the northeast wing and meandered on nerveless feet past the east wing, searching for a main corridor that would take her across the palace to the southwest wing. Had it been less than a month ago that Lenia had greeted her and Jareth, showing them around the vast hodge-podge of royal buildings? Now only a few more days remained until the end of the Pax Deorum, when Hoggle would be sentenced to death for a crime he hadn’t committed. She was beginning to wish she and Jareth had never come to Aves, and she could at last understand why he never wanted anything to do with the other monarchs.

She paused for a moment, veering into a large, unused parlor: she wanted to avoid any route that would take her near the south wing and Petronia’s quarters. This parlor sat at a junction of three main corridors: from here, one could go toward the south wing, the southeast wing, or into the center of the palace. Sarah sought the third option, which would take her across the palace to the southwest wing and the Falcon Suite.

The large, ornate fireplace was cold and dark, and Sarah dropped, exhausted, onto a velvet-covered settee, lowering her head into her hands. _It’s not fair!_ she thought. _I only just found out Hoggle’s alive, and I’m going to lose him again. And Vibiana will go free—she might even become queen someday_. How was that justice?

“Tell me what to do,” Sarah moaned. “Lenia—tell me what to do!”

A few moments passed, and Sarah lifted her head, feeling foolish. She stood, dragging her reluctant feet. And then she stopped.

As if from a dream or a memory came the sound of footsteps—quick, light female footsteps, the unmistakable clatter of high heels tapping on marble floors. The staccato noise grew louder, came closer. Sarah stood still, stricken, eyes glazed, breath shallow with panic.

Into the room breezed a lithe, swift-moving figure: a young woman, gowned in elegant dark purple, long, black hair flowing about her shoulders. A slender, petite woman of about twenty years old.

_Lenia._

**To be continued…**


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-13-17.

_Eleven_

Sarah stood making inarticulate noises as the small woman came toward her. How could this even be possible? Lenia was dead; Sarah had seen the body. How could Lenia be here? Had the priestesses of the temple defied the laws of nature and the Pax Deorum to work some sinister regenerative magic?

Perhaps Sarah had not been visible in the gloom of the parlor, or perhaps the young woman had been too absorbed in her own thoughts, because she almost collided with the Goblin Queen, stopping short and exclaiming, “Oh!”

Sarah stared down, her mouth working, unable to make any sound except grunting monosyllables.

The young woman dropped into a respectful curtsey. “Your Majesty,” she said. “Forgive me; I didn’t realize it was you.”

The girl’s voice sent a shudder of realization through Sarah—it was high-pitched, verging on squeaky, like a cartoon character’s, as unlike Lenia’s warm alto as could be imagined. The curtsey provided the other marker of identity—nobody except a trained dancer could drop down like that, the very essence of grace. This, then, was not Lenia at all, and Sarah could not help a wretched spasm of anger, grief, and resentment.

“Ralli?” Sarah found her voice and remembered the dancer’s name at the same time.

The head bobbed up and down. Sarah spotted other differences: Ralli’s eyes, set too far apart; her face, longer and narrower than Lenia’s; the almost s-shape of her nose. But otherwise, the similarity was shocking, something Sarah had not before consciously noted, perhaps because she’d never seen Ralli with her hair down or wearing ordinary clothes. The aubergine gown and cloak were very like those Lenia had crafted for herself, the cloak fastened by a pair of exquisite medallions. The medallions resembled large coins, both etched with the images of eagles, and between them ran a length of chain, the entire piece in solid gold. Sarah had no doubt the thing had been given in token of Ralli’s position as Royal Court Dancer.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, to have startled you. I was on my way back to my quarters.”

“It’s all right,” said Sarah. She hesitated, not sure what else to say; it would be grotesque to blurt out to the young dancer how much she resembled the queen’s dead kinswoman. Ralli was exactly Lenia’s height, about five feet even, and very slim. In addition to the similarity in build, Ralli moved with the same light, quick ease that had characterized Lenia’s carriage.

Pure, unadulterated inspiration blossomed in Sarah’s mind. She flashed a smile at the dancer and said, “May I ask an extraordinary favor of you?”

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” Ralli squeaked.

“Have you participated in the court masques?”

Ralli nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty, Picus and I both have, many times.”

“Would you like to arrange another?”

The girl stared up at Sarah. “Your Majesty? Is there some occasion?”

Sarah said, “This must be an absolute secret. Nobody else can know about it. You, Picus, whoever you need to help you put it together, but nobody else. It won’t be elaborate, but it will require effects, and you’ll be at the center of it. You’ll need all your skills, not just as a dancer, but as a performer. I’ll fetch your costume and bring it to your rooms. What suite are you in?”

Ralli told her, then asked, “Does Her Majesty Queen Petronia know about this?”

“No. And it’s vital she doesn’t. It’s nothing that will harm her, but it’s a very serious thing, Ralli. Someone’s life depends on it.”

The dancer looked apprehensive, but also intrigued. Her unusual eyes held a gleam of adventure, bordering on mischief. This girl had spirit.

“I’ll meet with you and Picus tonight, an hour before midnight,” Sarah told her. “I’ll come via the service tunnels, so don’t be surprised. Can I trust you?”

“On my honor, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you.”

Sarah tore away, leaving the astonished dancer behind her.

(ii)

She had never been to Lenia’s rooms, but they were not difficult to find: Sarah used the service tunnels to get into the south wing and followed the corridors marked with the image of an owl. The peepholes showed her a series of rooms: Lady Jacama’s, Baroness Gannet’s, the inevitable dining rooms, the endless sitting rooms, a presence room. The Owl Suite was almost as extensive and fabulous as Petronia’s own rooms. Blessedly, there was nobody about; perhaps Gannet and Jacama were with the queen. At last Sarah found the bedchamber that must have belonged to Lenia and slipped inside.

The suite had not been touched since Lenia’s death, although a strong scent of freesia lingered in the air, disconcerting Sarah with the illusion that the rooms’ occupant would return at any moment. Sarah did not light any candles, relying instead on her goblin eyesight, which pierced the gloom like a cat’s. Lenia’s personal effects lay undisturbed, bearing mute, tragic witness to their former owner’s absence. Sarah touched nothing, but she stood turning in a slow circle, trying to absorb the pattern of these artifacts, all that remained of her friend, and impress them into her memory.

After she’d gotten her bearings, Sarah moved on silent feet across the carpets into an adjacent dressing room. Here, she suffered another rude shock. Hanging on the door of an open wardrobe was an elaborate gown, a hideous flummery of rich fabrics in silver, green, and purple, bedecked with jewels. The dress itself hung on one hanger; the long train was looped up over another. This must have been Lenia’s wedding gown, and Sarah found herself paradoxically relieved that her friend would never wear it. She moved from wardrobe to wardrobe until she found the right garment, rolling up the fabric into a portable bundle. Lenia’s jewel box sat open nearby, precious gems and metals scattered in a careless spray across the tabletop. Sarah spotted right away the items she sought. The dressing table also held Lenia’s other effects: hairbrushes, combs, all the paraphernalia of female beauty. Sarah followed her nose until she discovered the source of Lenia’s habitual scent: a small corked bottle of powder, which Sarah added to her contraband.

For a moment she stood, glancing around the room, aching with sadness, then she shook herself back to the task at hand and slipped into the service tunnel, closing the door behind her.

(iii)

Jareth suspected she was up to something. Sarah could tell from his posture, from the bemused, sidelong glances he kept giving her. He said nothing as they dressed for the funeral, and when he gave her his arm to walk down the stairs that led from the Falcon Suite, his eyebrows lifted in an expression both questioning and sardonic. Sarah only raised her own brows in response.

They had opted for a palette of somber monochrome: Jareth in gray tights, white shirt, and a fine black waistcoat beneath a frock coat of the same fabric; Sarah in a gown of silver and white silk, the stomacher panel embroidered in black. Both monarchs had draped black cloaks over their shoulders. Sarah thought they looked like a pair of vampires on their way to a formal evening in a church crypt. Beneath the tightly-laced stays, her pounding heart sent a steady flow of adrenaline through her bloodstream, heightening her senses into preternatural awareness. She hoped she looked calmer than she felt.

The funeral took place in the great hall of the Royal Museum, the site of Petronia’s coronation. A far smaller crowd was in attendance for this gloomy event. At one end of the hall, two thrones had been set up on the dais for the queen and king, both of whom were garbed in gray. The royal families sat in the seats at floor level, affording Sarah a closer view of Lenia’s body than she wanted. The corpse had been laid out on a catafalque similar to that which Sarah had seen in her vision of Queen Eucissa’s funeral, only with an owl overshadowing the head of the bier. In a grotesque fit of mawkish emotion, someone had garbed Lenia in the ill-fated wedding dress. An elaborate matching headpiece had been affixed to the top of her head, which concealed the fatal wound. Beneath the headdress, her dark hair had been left unbound, fanning out around her, dramatic against the white satin drapery. Her arms lay limply at her sides. At Lenia’s feet, the train of the gown spilled over the bier, shimmering cloth of silver in the candlelight.

One advantage of the intense cold was its power to preserve the body. There was no odor of decay, and Lenia’s skin looked as cold and pale and hard as marble. The body had been strewn about with white roses—perhaps the very roses that would have adorned Lenia at her wedding. More roses and greenery decorated the vast chamber and surrounded the foot of the bier on all sides, and the scent of the flowers verged on overpowering.

Sarah’s gaze flicked about, taking in the reactions of the mourners. Tylas and Petronia wore studied expressions of deep grief. Baroness Gannet looked like she’d aged about two thousand years; she sat slumped to one side, her face gaunt, her eyes vacant. Beside her, Lady Jacama sat like a wax dummy, as colorless as her daughter’s corpse. On the other side of Jacama sat Alaemon, wearing gray and mauve, composed but still glowering with resentment. Beside her sat her husband, Turnix. Sarah would have loved to flip her middle finger at him.

Across from Jareth and Sarah sat the Varanese contingent. Prince Cerastis, as solemn as ever, appeared to be the only one of his family experiencing genuine grief. To the left of Jareth and Sarah sat Queen Inula and her family, all garbed in sober dark blue, their faces tight with sorrow and distress. The other members of the royal and noble families looked bored and uncomfortable. Nobody liked this evidence of bloodshed in their midst, and certainly nobody appreciated this stark reminder of inevitable mortality.

Sarah made a discreet check, but she saw no sign of poor Drazen, unless the young dancer were hidden somewhere above, observing the mourning rite in secret. Sarah felt meanly glad that she would not have to endure the sight of his irresolute face with its soft, tremulous lips. Not far from the queen’s throne sat her coterie of ladies-in-waiting, Lady Vibiana among them. The dancer made a good show of composure, but Sarah noted the periodic twitchy spasms that crossed her face, the way she kept twisting the fabric of her gown in her hands. Her husband Anser was seated among the other guests, and Sarah didn’t miss the looks of obvious concern that Anser kept giving his wife.

A priestess of the temple conducted the service, an old woman garbed in the black of the Crone, but not the same priestess who had taken the Crone’s role at the coronation. Did the women alternate ceremonial duties, or did Lenia not rate the most prestigious officiant? Sarah couldn’t tell, and it seemed a crass question to ask, even of someone as open-minded as Queen Inula. From the balcony overhead, a woman sang a baleful mourning dirge, but it wasn’t the Voice of the Goddess. There was no sign of the High Priestess, either, and Sarah felt peevish, miffed that her dead friend had not been accorded higher honors.

Even the funeral litany itself felt generic and half-hearted. The priestess made reference to the untimely nature of Lenia’s death, the injustice of a young life cut short by senseless violence. She made mention of the family members and friends left behind. She addressed the wasted potential of Lenia’s stolen years, including the marriage that had never taken place. At the conclusion of the ceremony, she circled the catafalque three times, anointing Lenia’s forehead and eyelids with smudges of holy oil, blessing Lenia’s spirt in the names of the Maiden, Mother, and Crone. Sarah gathered that the body eventually would be cremated, based on an allusion made by the priestess.

“And as her ashes scatter to the four winds, may her spirit find its way to the Blessed Realm, the Summerlands, where she may dwell at ease with her foremothers forever.”

Sarah half-expected the mourners to respond with “amen,” but of course they didn’t. As the priestess finished speaking, the gilded double doors at the far end of the great hall swung open. All heads turned automatically, but outside the chamber lay only pitch darkness. A strong, cold wind gusted through the great hall, extinguishing scores of candles and plunging the room into shadow. Only the candles in lanterns high up on the walls still burned, the light they cast feeble at best. A murmur of startled dread rose from the crowd.

From all around came the sound of an eerie, sepulchral moaning, accompanied by atonal, unearthly music, like skeletal fingers plucking the stringed guts of a derelict piano. A cloud of icy mist rolled through the double doors, and the murmurs became startled exclamations of real fear. Sarah had not known exactly what to expect, but this was spectacular.

From the cloud of mist emerged a small, slim figure, eliciting gasps of horror from the crowd. Lenia’s revenant walked on unsteady feet down the aisle toward the catafalque, her face gray-white, her eyes hollow black sockets in her face. She was garbed in the crimson gown she’d worn to the coronation, the tattered velvet slack on her frame and glittering with a sheen of frost. Her black hair was wrapped around the ruby-studded gold coronet, tousled and scraggly, strands flying loose; the rest of Lenia’s jewelry hung askew from her ears, neck, and wrists. About her wafted the distinctive scent of freesia, perceptible even over the mass of roses. Lenia moved not with her customary grace, but with the rigid, ataxic lurch of muscles contracted by rigor mortis. She looked for all the world as if she’d just crawled out of an underground crypt.

The black gash of a mouth opened, and the ghoul croaked out a dreadful imperative. “ _Justice_ ,” it demanded. “ _Justice!_ ” Her right arm rose in shaky jerks as she came around the bier’s left side, causing the mourners in the front to shrink away. A finger white as bone pointed, and all eyes followed the direction of its incontrovertible accusation: Lady Vibiana.

A thin, high-pitched screech rose up, a sound of undiluted torment. Vibiana was on her feet, trying to flee, but two of the ladies-in-waiting caught her by the arms. By now, though, Vibiana was like a woman possessed, and she yanked away from her captors with such force the outer sleeves of her gown tore off. She stumbled, aiming blindly for one of the exits, still screaming that horrific, anguished shriek. But guards lunged to intercept her, and even her dancer’s strength was no match for the three powerful women.

“Bring her here!” Petronia was on her feet, taking charge of the situation despite her obvious state of shock. The guards dragged Vibiana, literally kicking and screaming, before the queen. In the face of Petronia’s wrath, Vibiana burst into incoherent, babbling sobs.

“Niece of mine!” Petronia thundered. “You have heard the accusation of the dead! Do you deny the dreadful charges put against you?”

By now, other guards were bringing torches, and Sarah cursed the light that would expose the effect. Nobody approached the revenant, which stood shrouded in mist and darkness, motionless but visibly breathing.

Vibiana sobbed and blubbered, her nose running, her pretty face contorted. The spectacle appalled Sarah, although she already knew of Vibiana’s guilt. The dancer’s body went boneless and she crumpled to the floor at the queen’s feet, weeping.

A male voice cut across the room, piercing the babble of voices.

“Your Majesty, it was me.” Anser was making his way out into the aisle. “I murdered Lenia. Please forgive my wife’s distress. She can’t bear the thought of my being punished.”

He was so smooth, his guilt so genuine, right down to the fearful catch in his voice, that for an instant Sarah almost believed him.

Petronia stared down at where her niece lay in an abject huddle on the floor. “Is this true?”

Inch by inch, Lady Vibiana hauled herself to her feet, as if her husband’s voice had brought her back to her senses. Sarah waited to see if she would confess or let Anser pay the penalty. The guards hovered close by, their attention divided between husband and wife.

The light in the room grew brighter as more guards arrived bearing torches and candles were re-lit. Anser circled the revenant with superstitious caution as he made his way toward his wife, but then he stopped short, blinking with the incredulity and mounting fury of a man who realizes he’s walked with eyes wide open into the most obvious of traps.

“What—what is this?” he exploded. “This is no ghost! It’s Ralli!”

Amidst a great swell of clamoring exclamations, everyone turned to stare at the champion dancer, who stood clad in Lenia’s clothing, unperturbed.

Lady Vibiana stared also, face contorting into an expression of surpassing hatred. With an ungodly banshee wail, she launched herself toward Ralli, so quickly that the startled guards could not stop her. Sarah had not foreseen this; she leaped to her feet, knowing she was too late to protect Ralli, who stood alone and unguarded. But at the last moment, an instant before Vibiana’s outstretched, strangling hands could close around her rival’s slim neck, Ralli moved like a cobra-killing mongoose: her torso swung down sideways until it was parallel to the floor while her left leg shot up in a swoosh of red silk, and her booted foot made audible contact with Vibiana’s jaw. The queen’s niece staggered and was seized by the three guards, who twisted her arms behind her back.

“It was _her_!” Vibiana screamed, so enraged that spittle was flying from her mouth. Even restrained, her upper body kept lunging toward Ralli. “I thought it was _her_! That slut, bitch, filth! I should have won! Everyone knew it! I should have won! That frog-eyed no-talent!” Tears were streaming from Vibiana’s eyes and mucus from her nose; the guards were doing their heroic best to drag her away. “That conniving whore! So perfect—always so perfect—why can’t I be perfect? Why? Why?” Her face crumpled, the ability to speak left her, and all that emerged from her mouth was an unbroken screech, followed by incoherent sobs.

(iv)

“By all the gods in the sky.” Queen Inula kept trying to raise a drink to her mouth, but her hands were shaking, and she could not lift the goblet. After a moment, her husband, King Rumex, raised the goblet for her, allowing her to take a fortifying swallow of wine.

They sat in Petronia’s outer parlor, where guests waited to see the queen. Jareth and Sarah were on one settee, Inula and Rumex on another, Agrostis and Marsilea on a third. In a large chair sat Ralli, still wearing Lenia’s clothes and reeking of freesia, her hands and face scrubbed free of the ghoulish makeup. Crouched beside her was Picus, her partner, handsome face bloodless beneath his mop of golden curls. An hour or more had passed since the confrontation, and he was still white as a sheet. He clutched Ralli’s hand as if he never wanted to let her out of his sight again.

King Rumex regarded the female dancer, his blue eyes blinking rapidly. “So it was you,” he said. “You, Ralli, were the intended victim. It wasn’t Lenia at all.”

“I had no idea,” Ralli said, her Minnie Mouse voice at odds with her sense of indomitable calm. “I had no idea she hated me so badly.”

Sarah told her, “That was an amazing kick. How did you ever learn to do that?”

Ralli made a small gesture with one hand, as if her physical prowess were nothing out of the ordinary. “It’s part of our training,” she said. “We do kicks in all directions. It seemed like the best way to stop her.”

“Good thinking,” said Inula. “And fast reflexes.”

“Whose idea was all this?” asked Marsilea. “I’m not ashamed to admit I was scared half out of my mind!”

“It was my idea,” said Sarah, “when I bumped into Ralli and realized how much she resembles Lenia, especially when you see her from behind. Ralli and Picus planned the theatrics, and some of their friends helped with the effects—the mist, the music. I wanted to shock and frighten Vibiana into confessing. But I thought her motive was political. I never dreamed it was something as personal as losing the dance competition.”

Picus said wryly, “It may be the last masque ever staged in Phoebetria.”

As if finishing her partner’s sentence, Ralli added, “We certainly put on a show people will never stop talking about.”

“So, what happens now?” asked Agrostis.

“That’s entirely up to Queen Petronia,” said Inula.

They lapsed into silence, each locked in his or her private thoughts. Again and again, Sarah’s mind went to Hoggle, wondering if he’d been released yet, or if she would have to press Petronia for that as well.

At last the door to the inner presence chamber opened, and a guard emerged.

“Her Majesty will see you now.”

The eight of them followed the guard into the presence chamber and took seats before Petronia’s large chair. The other people in the room were three ladies-in-waiting, huddled in a corner, and Vibiana herself, seated in a chair to one side, two guards standing behind her. The dancer appeared dazed, almost drugged.

Petronia announced, “King Tylas is with his sister and mother. As you can imagine, this wretched business has been a terrible shock to Baroness Gannet and Lady Jacama.”

Heads bobbed, and quiet murmurs of sympathy were voiced.

“My niece has been given a truth serum by a priestess of the temple. She has been questioned, and her guilt has been established beyond doubt. However, there still are other matters to settle.” She turned her hard sapphire gaze to Vibiana. “Tell them the confession you made to me.”

Lady Vibiana stirred from her stupor. In a dull monotone, she said, “I murdered Lenia, believing she was Ralli. I was on my way to a secret visit with my husband, Anser, in the southeast wing. I had just stepped from a service tunnel into the basement corridor of the Shrike Suite, and I saw Lenia right in front of me. I saw her only from the back. I struck her with a lantern I was carrying. I thought it was Ralli. I didn’t intend to kill her—I wanted to injure her so she could never dance again. The blow was stronger than I realized, and only when she was on the floor did I realize it was Lenia, and that she was dead. I panicked. I hid the lantern in the service tunnel and ran back to my own bedchamber.”

Sarah said, “I found the lantern in the service tunnel. It’s in Queen Inula’s suite now. There’s an albatross engraved on the base of the lantern. I knew it had to be you because of the direction Lenia’s body was facing. If it had been Anser, he would have been coming toward Lenia, not behind her.”

Through her drugged haze, Vibiana glared at Sarah with an expression of withering hatred.

Queen Petronia addressed Sarah. “Was that charade at the funeral your idea?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Sarah maintained a calm, serene countenance. “I knew the dwarf couldn’t possibly have killed Lenia. I didn’t want the murderer to escape justice.”

Petronia made a harrumphing noise in her throat. “I do hope you’re satisfied.”

“I am, Your Majesty. I trust the dwarf has been set at liberty, now that Lady Vibiana’s guilt has been established.”

“He’s been returned to the household of my niece Alaemon for now. When her party returns home, he’ll stay here in Phoebetria and be sent to work the salt plain in the spring.”

Sarah had all she could do to keep from crying out in protest. But Queen Inula stepped in smoothly before Sarah could speak.

“Your Majesty, my husband King Rumex and I would be pleased to have the dwarf accompany us back to Vitis when the Pax Deorum ends. He surely can be put to some useful employment in our kingdom.”

“Very well.” Petronia settled the matter with a wave of her hand, and Sarah felt weak with a mixture of relief and gratitude. “Alaemon doesn’t want him in her sight, so you can have him. I don’t understand why anyone would want such a repulsive creature around, but suit yourself.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Inula.

“How is Alaemon?” asked Sarah, switching the subject before Petronia could change her mind about Hoggle. “This must be so distressing.”

“She’s resting in her rooms, and her husband Turnix is with her. This has all been most taxing, especially for a woman who’s just given birth.” As she spoke, Petronia’s hand drifted down to her abdomen, and a suggestion of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“It’s been a difficult time for us all.” Queen Inula made her statement sound like a final pronouncement. She told Petronia, “Your coronation has been far more eventful than any of us could have dreamed possible.”

“Indeed it has.” Petronia rose to her feet. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must rest.”

Everyone stood, waiting until the queen had vanished into her rooms. The guards were hauling Vibiana to her feet, and Sarah wondered what punishment, if any, Petronia would mete out to her murderous niece. She watched the dancer being led away, trying to summon anger or hatred, but all she felt was emptiness and the relief of Hoggle’s life being spared. Then Jareth’s arm was slipping through hers, and she let herself be guided out of the Eagle Suite, overcome with exhaustion so thorough that it was a wonder she didn’t collapse on the spot.

(v)

The queen lost no time passing judgement against Lady Vibiana. Sarah had just finished breakfast the next morning when Marsilea came whirling into the dining room of the Falcon Suite. Her warm brown eyes were alive with excitement, and she fairly quivered with the effort of containing her news.

“Have you heard?” she hissed.

Sarah’s heart gave a great lurch, her stomach clenching in dread of some new disaster. “No, what happened?”

Marsilea took a seat at the table. “Lady Vibiana’s been sentenced. In the spring, when it’s safe to travel, she and Anser will be banished back to Telluraves. They can never come to the mainland again.”

_That’s all?_ Sarah thought.

Something must have shown in her face, because Marsilea added, in a hushed voice, “Petronia’s also moving the succession into the line of her husband’s family, just as it’s been rumored. Only now, she has justification. She’s saying it’s because Vibiana violated the Pax Deorum, which normally entails automatic execution.” A note of sarcasm crept into Marsilea’s voice. “Petronia’s chosen to be merciful.”

“But with Lenia dead… Petronia surely can’t be thinking of Alaemon as her heir?”

Marsilea’s golden head swung back and forth. “The king’s natural daughter, Kosma. She’ll be formally adopted by the queen.”

“I thought she’s to train as a priestess?”

“She will, but she can still be the contingency in the event…” Marsilea let the sentence trail into discreet nothingness: in the event Petronia’s pregnancy didn’t come to satisfactory fruition.

“Thank you,” Sarah said, her mind awhirl. “Thanks for bringing the news.”

After Marsilea left, Jareth began chuckling. He bounced Lizzie on his knee, grinning so widely his jaw nearly split away from his face.

“Oh, stop,” Sarah complained.

“You don’t see it, do you?” he said.

He knew he could always get under her skin by teasing her about the intelligence in which she took so much pride. As much as it annoyed Sarah, she recognized it as a form of erotic banter; also, Jareth was prodding her to work, to think it through for herself.

She puzzled over Marsilea’s bombshell, wondering what aspect of it had eluded her. Then she cursed herself for having not seen something so obvious.

“Son of a bitch!” she exploded.

His chuckles became open-throated laughter.

“She knew!” Sarah fumed. “Petronia knew it was her all along!”

“Vibiana would have been Petronia’s first suspect. She had more motive than anyone for wanting Lenia dead, even if it wasn’t the motive Petronia assumed.”

“And Petronia let me do her dirty work,” said Sarah, her face creasing into a ferocious scowl. “She didn’t want to accuse Vibiana herself, because it would seem like she was grinding an axe against her sister’s family. This way, she gets what she wants and keeps her hands clean. I’ve given her exactly the grounds she needs to exclude her sister’s family from the line of succession.”

Jareth bobbed his head in a little mock-bow.

“She knew I’d do it, too.”

“You played your hand with that very loud and public defense of the salt miners and peat boggers,” said Jareth. “Someone with such a keenly developed sense of fair play would never let Lenia go to her grave without justice. Or see an innocent punished.”

Sarah slumped back in her seat. “Shit,” she grumbled.

“Would you have done differently, if you’d known?” asked Jareth, more serious now.

“No, of course not.” Sarah had saved Hoggle—he might not ever remember who she was, but he was alive, and now he’d be going to a decent home. It would have been a torment to bring him back to the Underground with no memories of his past—Hoggle, and yet not Hoggle. Now he would make a new start in a place where he would not have to endure either Jareth’s contempt or Sarah’s guilt. _It’s better this way_ , Sarah told herself, resolved to set aside her own heartbreak.

Sarah reminded herself that she also had avenged Lenia, preventing Lady Vibiana from one day becoming queen, and that was no small thing. What depths of spite and bitterness had caused the dancer—young, beautiful, gifted, and loved—to commit such an act? Not only had she murdered Lenia, she’d intended to inflict a crippling head injury on Ralli. Was it the recent humiliations at Petronia’s hand, or some longstanding insecurity?   “Why can’t I be perfect?” she had cried. Or did she suffer an affliction of the mind as a result of inbreeding within the Clade Estrida? Sarah thought banishment too lenient, but then she considered that Vibiana would have to live in Telluraves for the rest of her life, enduring her family’s enmity at having cost them their place in the royal succession. Perhaps that was a fitting punishment after all—death by a thousand cuts.

(vi)

The great hall in the in the Royal Museum buzzed with voices, and the air was redolent with the scents of flowers and perfumes. Everywhere people moved was the rustle of rich fabrics. The winter sun was at its zenith, and light the pale gold of champagne poured through the tall windows, flooding the vast chamber with delightful radiance.

After the worry and anguish of the past fortnight, everyone seemed to welcome the celebration; Sarah overheard less bitchy gossip and more expressions of genuine gladness. Petronia herself seemed content to sit over to one side with Tylas and not be the center of attention.

On the raised dais stood the king’s cousin, Winsel, and the younger Varanese daughter, Princess Abronia, their faces shining as a priestess of the temple, garbed as the Mother, made them handfast. Sarah thought they made a handsome couple. Abronia had let her spiky crop grow out a bit, and the pale wisps framed her face in a gamine, charming way. Winsel gave a good idea of how Tylas had looked as a youth: tall, slim, tautly elegant. The two appeared quite thrilled to be marrying, and their happiness was good to see.

Sarah watched the ceremony, her mind aswirl with a stormcloud of emotion. This should have been Lenia’s big day, although she would have hated every moment of it. Sarah lamented the loss of her friend, but would she have wanted to sit here watching Lenia be forced to marry a man she would never love? Sarah glanced over at the Varanese family, who despite their expressionless faces still exuded a sense of pride. Even Prince Cerastis managed to look happy for his newly-married sister. No, Lenia had effected the ultimate escape.

At the feast afterwards, Jareth and Sarah twirled around on the dance floor, lost in the pleasure of each other. Jareth, Sarah knew, was of course pleased that Hoggle would not be returning to the Underground with them, while Sarah was happy her friend was alive. The outcome suited both of them and would preserve _shalom bayit_ —peace in the home.

The party continued until well into the evening, and when it ended, there was no mad chase up to the highest tower. Jareth and Sarah returned like an old married couple to their rooms in the Falcon Suite, which had begun to feel so like home that Sarah’s mental images of their bedroom in the goblin palace had begun to blur around the edges.

(vii)

“What an undertaking,” laughed Queen Inula, looking around Sarah’s dressing room. “How many clothes did you bring?”

“Most of these I had made here in Aves,” Sarah told her. She had divided her vast wardrobe in two: the things she was taking back to the Underground were mostly packed, the trunks shifted into her bedchamber. The rest was displayed all around the dressing room, hanging in open wardrobes and spilling from trunks. Sarah watched the wistful expression that crossed Marsilea’s face as she gazed with hungry eyes at the spread of luxurious garments.

Sarah had invited the two women from Vitis to the Falcon Suite ostensibly to say goodbye and to enjoy a last afternoon with her new friends. But she’d had another purpose in mind.

“I want you to have these,” she said, indicating the entire room with a sweep of her arm. The two women gawped at her.

“You can’t be serious,” Marsilea squeaked. “All of them?”

“Everything,” Sarah told her. “It’s more clothes than I could wear in a thousand lifetimes. Look.” She crossed over to one of the big wardrobes and showed Marsilea the outfit that hung from the open door. “There was going to be an outdoor winter carnival, and it didn’t happen because of the storm. So I never wore this.” The gown was deep red, velvet and brocade, with multiple layers of petticoats in wool and silk, and a matching cloak and hat, both trimmed with lavish amounts of sable.

“But if… when, um, there might be a naming ceremony…” Marsilea trailed off, another non-reference to Queen Petronia’s still theoretical heir. “You might have to come back here again sometime soon. Won’t you want clothes for that?”

“It might be a different season, though, and I’m sure the fashions will have changed by then anyway.” This elicited some chuckles from Marsilea and Inula. “Besides, the two of you have taught a lesson by example: bring my own wardrobe. The next time I travel anywhere, I’m wearing my own clothes, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Inula beamed a wonderful, wide smile.

Sarah went on, “Inula, when we first met, you told me your kingdom is poor. There’s enough fabric in these gowns to make lovely clothes for scores of people—women, men, children. Jareth’s clothes are in those trunks over there.” She pointed. “He doesn’t need them any more than I do.”

Queen Inula appeared stunned by the magnitude of Sarah’s gift.

“I could never repay you for this,” the queen said.

“I don’t expect you to. If not for your help, Lenia would have gone to her pyre without justice, and an innocent creature would have been needlessly punished. You can’t measure lives in gold or goods, but I can at least use these things to say thank you.”

Sarah’s vehemence took both women aback. Inula’s eyes held a wise look, as if she realized there had been more to Sarah’s investigation than a mere quest for justice.

“Thank you,” said Marsilea. “This is so generous. And these fabrics are so warm… so much fur! There are people in Vitis who have all they can do to get through winter… this will help make the cold weather so much easier.”

“Take them, with my blessing,” Sarah responded.

While Sarah’s maids packed the clothes into trunks, the three women sat by the fire in Sarah’s bedchamber, drinking wine and reminiscing about the coronation. “The bards’ll be singing songs and telling tales about it for centuries,” Marsilea predicted.

As her two guests were preparing to leave, Sarah asked Inula, “So the dwarf, is he with your household now?”

“Oh, yes,” Inula told her. “Mephitis will be leaving with us tomorrow. My son Agrostis will find a village where he can live, a family that will look out for him. Do you know, he spoke yesterday? He actually said ‘yes,” when someone asked him something.”

Sarah’s eyes welled. “That’s wonderful,” she managed. When she had control over her voice, she said, “Don’t you think he needs a better name?” Both women gave her puzzled expressions, and Sarah said, “Mephitis… it’s the name of a skunk.”

Inula’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yes, in that case we absolutely will find another name for him.” With a shrewd look she said, “Do you have anything to suggest?”

“I once had a good friend, whose name was Hobbart,” Sarah told her. “He’s gone now, but I still think about him all the time. He was braver than anyone ever gave him credit for, and more clever than even he knew.”

“Hobbart.” Inula nodded. “I like that.”

“Me, too,” said Marsilea. “I think it will suit him.”

The three exchanged embraces, and Sarah said, “Don’t leave tomorrow without saying goodbye!”

Inula squeezed her hard and told her, “Not a chance.”

(viii)

That night, Sarah dreamed of summertime, of wandering an endless meadow full of wildflowers. The sun shone in a cerulean sky, and a sweet-scented breeze moved through the tall grasses, which rippled like ocean waves.

She had no sense of how long she ambled about this place, no destination in mind, no urge or desire to do anything; it was enough to drift here and there, admiring the flowers and enjoying the balmy air.

From the distance came a rhythmic thumping: faint, but growing louder. The sound caused Sarah no alarm, and it didn’t surprise her at all when a beautiful white horse came into view. The glorious beast had black eyes, a black mane, and a black tail. Riding atop him, bareback, was Lenia. She wore a loose-fitting gown of red silk, and her hair blew long and loose about her shoulders, her smile as radiant as the sun.

“Hi,” said Sarah, as if they were only bumping into each other at some social gathering. “Are you on your way?”

“It would seem so.” Lenia was unafraid of whatever lay ahead. “I wanted to thank you, first.”

“It was nothing,” Sarah told her. “I’d have done the same for anyone.” Feeling awkward, she asked, “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, no worries at all.”

Sarah blinked. “It’s not fair. You were so young.”

“And so I ever will be.” Lenia smiled down from her perch atop the horse, benign and beatific. “Don’t weep, Sarah Williams. We’ll meet again, one day.”

Sarah wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I can’t help it,” she said. “We’d barely gotten to be friends. I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t. When the time comes, the years will seem as moments. You’ll see.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” With a shaky laugh, Sarah said, “Well, you’ll never have to marry the fourteen-year-old.”

Lenia burst into merry laughter. “The poor thing. They’ll marry him off to someone, some girl who’ll make him happier than I ever could have.”

“You should’ve seen the dress they were making for you—it was hideous.”

Lenia grinned again. Sarah would miss dreadfully that endearing sideways smile.

“Have a beautiful life,” Lenia told her. “Live, love, laugh. Have more children. Dance and play. Do all the things I won’t be able to do now.”

“I will,” Sarah told her. “I promise.”

That seemed to satisfy Lenia. She whistled to her horse, and the animal broke into a gallop, bearing his rider away. Sarah’s last glimpse of Lenia was a flash of crimson silk against the green grass and blue sky. Sarah stared into the spot where horse and rider had vanished until the landscape blurred and became indistinct, and then she was staring up at the canopy over her bed. It was morning, and the Pax Deorum was almost over. It was time to go home.

(ix)

Beside her, Jareth stirred. He stretched, and his fingers sought out Sarah’s beneath the covers.

“Were you dreaming?” he inquired.

“Could you tell?”

“I can always tell.”

“Lenia came to me. She’s gone now. Gone to the Summerlands.”

“Hmm,” said Jareth.

“What, don’t you believe it exists?” asked Sarah.

“I can wait to discover if it’s real or not,” Jareth told her, drawing her into his arms.

“A very, very long time,” Sarah agreed.

(x)

The big parlor nearest the south gate entrance to the city was alive with noisy activity, guests embracing in farewell before transporting themselves home. Servants, luggage, all the retinues of the royal families had already gone on their way.

Queen Petronia and King Tylas circulated around the room, bidding farewell to their fellow-monarchs, thanking them for attending, apologizing for the unexpected drama.

Outside the tall windows, snow-clearing activities were in full swing. With the Pax Deorum lifted, magic could now be used, and Sarah watched, open-mouthed, as Lady Jacama raised her arms, causing a small tornado of snow to lift into the air, clearing a path right down to the flagstones. The swirling white cone traveled over to a nearby snow pile and added its burden to the already staggering heap. With the path cleared, Lady Jacama vanished out of sight, moving on to another part of the palace.

“She’ll be out there all day,” said Jareth, standing by Sarah’s side.

“It might feel good,” Sarah remarked, “to do something physical. Something useful.” Her arms tightened around Lizzie, and she breathed in the scent of her baby’s hair. Having carried a child, given birth, held that infant in her arms, watched it grow, she could not fathom Lady Jacama’s depths of grief. A beloved child was such a blessing, and Sarah could think of no greater tragedy than having that child torn away by violence. She blinked back tears, feeling she’d done nothing but cry for the past forty-eight hours. Jareth’s hand caressed her shoulder.

A voice cut into Sarah’s reverie. Marsilea came skipping across the carpet.

“The houses in the Outer Boulevard were all flattened by the snow,” she whispered, leaning her head close to Sarah’s in confidence. “They’re being rebuilt.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Sarah murmured.

“One of the guards told Queen Inula this morning.”

“I’m so glad,” Sarah responded. “That’s wonderful news.”

“Her Majesty and I sorted through the things you gave us,” Marsilea went on. “We separated out the woolens and are giving them as a gift to the families of the Outer Boulevard, so they’ll be able to make some new, warm things for themselves.”

“That’s so generous of you,” said Sarah, wishing she’d thought of it herself.

Queen Inula, King Rumex, and their son Prince Agrostis had been saying farewell to Petronia and Tylas, thanking them for their hospitality, and now they came over to say goodbye to Jareth and Sarah.

“We do hope you’ll be able to attend the flower festival next summer?” asked Inula.

“We wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Sarah responded before Jareth could say no.

“Splendid,” Inula beamed.

The two families shook hands and exchanged embraces, Lizzie babbling wistfully at young Delonix. At last, the family from Vitis stood in a tight cluster, and King Rumex uttered the incantation that would return them home.

“And the goblins are the last to depart,” said Petronia, sweeping across the carpet. “And here I thought you’d spirit yourselves away as soon as the Pax Deorum lifted.”

“Confounding you to the last,” said Jareth.

“It’s been an eventful month,” Sarah responded, taking refuge in understatement.

“I hope that’s not a complaint!” Petronia exclaimed.

“Not even remotely,” Sarah assured her. “Your hospitality is unparalleled.” Petronia swallowed her up in a strong, bosomy hug. Sarah’s keen ears detected the tiny, fluttering heartbeat of Petronia’s developing child, her embryonic heir, and she drew away with a smile, sliding her hands down Petronia’s arms and giving the queen’s wrists a knowing squeeze.

“Blessed be,” she said.

“Blessed be.” Petronia now was behaving as though Sarah were her very best chum, and why shouldn’t she? Sarah had been the instrument, however unwitting, of the Clade Estrida’s ruin, though it pleased Sarah to know the Queen of Aves was in her debt. If the day should ever come that Sarah had a particularly desperate need, she would not hesitate to call in the favor. Right now, though, she was content to let that bit of capital accumulate interest.

King Tylas shook hands with Jareth. “Don’t be strangers,” he said.

“With my lady queen organizing our social calendar, I dare not,” Jareth responded, to which Tylas responded with his empty social laugh.

After a final round of goodbyes, the goblin monarchs stood together, and Jareth produced one of his crystals. At his command, the sphere expanded to encircle them, and with an uttered incantation, they were gone, leaving the Kingdom of Aves behind them.

(xi)

“ _Spittledrum!_ ” Jareth roared.

The mayor of Goblin City, taken unawares by the abrupt arrival of his king and queen, leapt up from Jareth’s throne. A crystal appeared in Jareth’s right hand, which he pitched at the ersatz monarch with a wicked, underhanded bowling motion. The crystal erupted into a blazing ball of fire, which chased the mayor out of the throne room and down the corridor. Even when he’d gone tearing out of the palace, Sarah could still hear him shrieking as he tried to avoid having his ass barbequed.

“It’s good to be home,” she laughed. “I should go find where Spittledrum’s locked up Sir Didymus.”

“Start with the dungeons,” Jareth advised.

Lizzie squirmed in Sarah’s arms, and Sarah released the little girl, watching as she levitated upward with a happy squeal.

In its nest over Jareth’s throne, the vulture gave a dirge-like croak. Sarah glanced up, then did a double-take. She gave Jareth a nudge.

“Yes, he’s always nested up there,” Jareth said.

Grinning, Sarah said, “I think _he_ is actually a _she_. Look.”

Jareth gave the nest a closer inspection. Over the untidy tangle of twigs poked a tiny ball of white fluff, out of which protruded a distinctive vulture-face. The young bird’s entire head seemed to consist of nothing but its beak, like a cotton ball with a single black briar attached. Astonishingly repulsive. Lizzie, now floating level with the nest, pointed, bubbling with excitement at this novelty.

“Don’t touch the baby,” Sarah admonished. “Momma bird has sharp talons. C’mon, sweetie, let’s go find Sir Didymus.” Lizzie drifted down, and Sarah remarked to Jareth, “Should we name it?”

“The chick?” asked Jareth, eyebrows lifting.

“No, the mother vulture.”

“Name that thing?” he scoffed.

“Petronia would suit, don’t you think?”

Jareth burst into loud peals of laughter, and he drew Sarah in for a sideways embrace, kissing the top of her head.

Feeling marvelously content, Sarah headed for the dungeons, Lizzie in tow, leaving Jareth to get the rest of his kingdom back in order.

(xii)

After a lavish homecoming feast that night, Jareth and Sarah went out to walk the Labyrinth. Sarah inhaled and exhaled, reveling in the sense of home. Their castle might be plain, even rude, their kingdom humble, its denizens chaotic, but Sarah relished the familiarity. The change in climate also could not have been more welcome: after a month in Aves, winter in the Underground felt like July in Miami.

“I never got you a Yuletide gift,” said Jareth. He’d been quiet, pensive.

“What, those ridiculous clothes didn’t count?” Sarah teased.

“Not now that you’ve given them all away.”

Sarah laughed, squeezing his arm. “Let me think about it,” she said. By the time they’d finished their walk, inspiration had struck, and Sarah described to Jareth what she wanted. He didn’t seem surprised and agreed to her request without argument. Sarah hastened to her rooms to fetch her writing desk.

**To be continued…**

 

 

 


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-17-17.

_Twelve_

The Sunday morning in January dawned much as every other in central New York: gray, flat, sunless, cold. Shortly before seven, Robert Williams opened the front door, wincing at the icy chill, grabbed his newspaper off the step, and hastened back inside. He would have preferred to be still abed at this hour on a weekend, but insomnia had plagued him since Sarah’s departure, and he’d just as soon be up, doing something useful, than staring at the ceiling and dwelling on his misery.

He took the paper and his coffee into his home office, whose cozy clutter he preferred to Irene’s fabulous but sterile living room. Today’s _Democrat and Chronicle_ had come with a supplement, some kind of novelty in thick, fancy paper, which he set aside to examine later. Robert had never been much of a reader, but in the past year, he’d thrown himself into the printed word with an all-absorbing concentration, finding it the easiest way to escape the futility of his anguished thoughts.

An hour later, Irene and the kids were still sleeping, so Robert puttered out to the kitchen to fix breakfast and make more coffee. Even simple activities like this could cause no end of pain, recalling weekend mornings when Sarah had cooked breakfast and shared the newspaper with him. When the food was ready, Robert took his plate and sat at the kitchen table, eating without tasting as he stared out the window into the snowy back yard.

Fifteen months. Almost a year and a half. Two Thanksgivings, two of Sarah’s birthdays, two Christmases, two New Years. Robert had been looking and searching and investigating and wracking his brain trying to think where Sarah might possibly have gone. The folders in his office had multiplied, filling an entire cabinet and spilling onto the floor, but every lead had evaporated like mist. He had left no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored. There had been no straw too fragile, too dubious for him to grasp. By now he was familiar with the wretched pattern: the surge of hope, the single-minded drive of investigation, the despair as the possibility petered out, and the final wrenching, exhausting resignation as he was forced to face the reality of hitting another dead end.

Fear gnawed at him, eating into rational thought, causing mind to lurch and body to jerk in odd spasms, as if his nervous wiring were short-circuiting. He was worried, so horribly worried about what had become of his oldest child. Despite the letter she’d left for him, he could not be assured that she was all right, safe from harm. She had departed Oneida University without taking so much as a toothbrush with her. Even more alarmingly, she had not taken with her money or identification or even her house keys: her pocketbook had been found with passport, driver’s license, keyring, and wallet all inside it. She’d signed over the title to her car to her best friend, Raelin. Robert and Irene had sorted through Sarah’s clothes and belongings, making meticulous lists of everything, and it seemed as though Sarah had not taken with her even a pair of socks.

Nevertheless, the local police and university officials had not treated her disappearance as an abduction. Based on the letters she’d sent and her withdrawal from the university, they determined she’d vanished of her own volition, and nothing Robert said or did could convince them otherwise. At his own expense, he had hired a private investigator, who had followed up every available lead with a computer-like efficiency. Robert even had consulted a handwriting expert, who had determined that Sarah had not written any of her farewell letters under duress. And yet, he worried.

The references Sarah made to eloping with someone she’d met as a teenager drove Robert to distraction: he’d spent endless hours trying to reconstruct Sarah’s entire life in an effort to identify who that man might be. Students who’d taken photographs and made videos of the Riley Hall Halloween party, the last time and place anyone had seen Sarah, had put their work at Robert’s disposal. There were several electrifying pictures and some good video footage, showing Sarah dancing with a man Robert had never seen before. Much to Robert’s frustration, both Sarah and her partner had been wearing masks that concealed the upper half of their faces. The private investigator had calculated that the man in the pictures was most likely between the ages of thirty-five and forty, which meant he’d been at the very youngest in his late twenties when he’d entered Sarah’s life.

Robert and the detective had engaged in a long, tedious process of elimination, slogging back through Sarah’s school teachers, activity directors, camp counselors, college instructors. Raelin had admitted to him that Sarah had made an oblique reference to someone she’d met at fifteen years old, and Robert had concentrated in particular on the year 1986—no easy feat, given that the family’s former house had burned down in 1988. But none of the men from Sarah’s past matched the man in the photographs. Robert had enlisted the help of Sarah’s Francophone mother: Linda had spent some time in France, tracking down and interviewing everyone Sarah had known during her year abroad. But nothing had panned out.

Irene thought Sarah had been lying. She thought the claim of a teenage crush was a ruse to throw Robert off the scent, and she suspected Sarah’s beau was someone she’d met far more recently, perhaps at Oneida, perhaps in Europe, perhaps during a summer vacation. The private detective theorized that Sarah might be living in another country, under another name, which was why she’d left her license and passport behind; Sarah’s beau must have enough money to pay for a complete change in identity. With Sarah’s fluency in both French and German, she could be living anywhere: Europe, Quebec, North Africa. Robert only didn’t understand _why_. Why the need for such secrecy? He could only conclude—and the detective agreed with him—that the man must have some kind of criminal background, or there must be another reason why Sarah believed her parents would not approve of the relationship.

Irene’s patience had worn thin after several months with no word from her stepdaughter. The July after Sarah vanished, Irene had given birth to her second child with Robert, a girl they’d named Meredith. Irene understood Robert’s worry, but still she made it clear she believed he was expending too much time, money, and energy trying to locate someone who had no interest in being found. Robert made every effort not to neglect his two younger children, but his love for them could not diminish his concern for Sarah.

Again and again, Robert’s mind went to Sarah’s last week at home, the week between her junior year abroad and her senior year of college. She’d seemed fine during that visit—travel-weary, distracted, fretting about her post-graduation plans like any other student, but nothing that had struck Robert as out of the ordinary. Irene speculated that Sarah might have been pregnant, but even so, why would that make her drop out of college? Surely she must have realized Robert would have supported both her and her child. Why had she simply left? Couldn’t she have waited at least until she’d graduated from Oneida? The baby might not have been due until May or June; even if it had been born sooner, Sarah could easily have taken off a semester or even a year and finished her degree at a later time. Why such a dramatic break with her life, her education, everyone she knew, everything she’d worked for?

Sarah’s dormitory-mates in Riley Hall had been baffled and shocked by her disappearance, and they’d helped Robert as much as possible, not only with photos and video footage, but with their own recollections. Robert felt as though he’d interviewed every kid in the dorm, and none of them said they’d noticed anything out of the ordinary in Sarah’s behavior the night of the party. One of the kids even said how social and gregarious Sarah had been, circulating around the common rooms and talking with everyone. She’d been observed, by dozens of students, dancing up until midnight, when “Danse Macabre” had begun playing. Everyone Robert spoke to said they’d only seen Sarah’s mysterious partner during that one number. Residents of Riley Hall were supposed to sign in guests, but Sarah had not signed in anyone. Nobody had seen the strange man enter the dorm, and nobody saw him leave, with or without Sarah. Nobody had seen either one of them after “Danse Macabre” ended. The next day, the masks Sarah and her partner had been wearing at the party were found on the rooftop of the dorm’s central tower; the couple therefore must have gone upstairs at some point, but nobody could remember seeing them do so. Everyone agreed this was mystifying: the dorm had been crawling with students all night, but nobody had seen Sarah’s partner anywhere but on the dance floor, and only for the seven minutes of the Saint-Saëns.

Robert had spoken at length several times with Raelin Bourke, Sarah’s best friend. Her story never varied. Like everyone else, she’d seen Sarah during the party—they’d hung out together, danced together. Raelin had seen Sarah dancing with her beau during “Danse Macabre,” at one point passing close enough so that she’d brushed into Sarah’s vast skirt. In the excited aftermath that followed the number, traditionally played at midnight at Riley’s Halloween party, Raelin had lost track of her friend. The party didn’t wind down until nearly three AM, at which time Raelin had gone to bed with her boyfriend, Danny Foster, in his room. It wasn’t until the next morning that she’d returned to her own room and found the letter Sarah had left for her.

When pressed about anything Sarah might have revealed prior to Halloween, Raelin would only admit that Sarah had told her about a teenage crush, someone who had “messed with her head” when she was fifteen, and that the experience had “stayed with her forever.” Sarah had told her friend that “nothing happened,” which Robert took to mean something sexual. He knew from interviewing one of Sarah’s boyfriends that she’d ended her virginity the summer between high school and college, which confirmed Sarah’s claim that she’d not slept with the man she’d met at fifteen. But Sarah had never revealed to Raelin the identity of her crush, and that was the only reference Sarah had made to it during the entire three years of the girls’ friendship.

Robert could not help suspecting that Raelin knew more and was withholding something from him. He had pressed and pressed, but Raelin would only repeat what she’d already told him. Robert learned it was Raelin who had found Sarah’s Halloween costume, that astonishing white ball gown, in a secondhand shop in downtown Oneida. Robert had questioned the shop’s owner, who could only tell him that someone had left the dress anonymously on the front step of her shop in early October. And Sarah had signed over the title to her car to Raelin. But if there had been any collusion between the two girls, Raelin would not reveal it. Seven months after Halloween, Raelin and Danny had graduated with the rest of their class, and Robert had lost touch with them. Four months from now, another class of Oneida students would graduate, and most of the kids whom Sarah had known in college would be scattered, gone to the next phase of their lives. Robert grieved bitterly that his daughter was not among them.

Two weeks after Sarah’s disappearance, her class photos had arrived in the mail, like a dispatch from the Great Beyond. Sarah’s departure from her former life had been planned in such detail that she’d even filled out a forwarding order with the Post Office. Those first few months had been full agonizing pit traps: mail arriving at the house for Sarah, phone calls from old friends unaware she’d vanished. These things, each a _memento mori_ , ripped open the wound and left it to bleed anew.

But the class pictures in themselves provided another clue. Comparing those pictures to the photos taken the night of the Halloween party, it was evident Sarah had undergone some drastic physical change. Her senior photos showed a young woman whose face still bore the roundness of girlhood. The Halloween pictures, taken scant weeks later, showed a leaner, more angular face, a chin with a new point. But the eyebrows were the most startling thing: arching up at the outer corners, giving Sarah’s whole face a sinister aspect. One of the Riley students had run into Sarah Halloween morning and asked to take her picture; Sarah had claimed the eyebrows were part of her makeup for the party, but if so, she’d done a spectacular job. In the picture, a close-up of her head and shoulders, those eyebrows could not have looked more real. Even Linda, a stage actress, told Robert she could not see how the makeup effect had been achieved.

When Robert had gone back to Oneida—one of his many fruitless trips to the college—and shown the photos to Raelin, she’d just shrugged and said Sarah had lost some weight. Robert was not convinced: weight loss could not account for such a radical alteration of physical appearance. He asked Raelin whether Sarah had been using drugs. Raelin had laughed at the very thought, and all the available evidence bore this out: Sarah’s class grades had been stellar prior to her withdrawal—a week before she vanished, she’d aced a German literature midterm, work which her professor described as among the best she’d ever seen.

The other possibility that worried Robert was that Sarah had been drawn into some bizarre cult. When asked about her Halloween costume, Sarah had told her friends she was the Goblin Queen. Irene reminded Robert about Sarah’s adolescent obsession with “that ridiculous play”—a copy of which they’d found among Sarah’s college possessions. Irene had sharpened Robert’s hazy recollections: Sarah, even as a teenager, had enjoyed dressing up in a fairy-princess costume and performing scenes from a play called _The Labyrinth_ , often in the town park. Robert had done some research—one of those tantalizing straws—and had learned that the play had been based on an obscure figure from Germanic mythology: Jareth, the King of the Goblins. Linda had given Sarah her copy of the play; later, she’d also given Sarah a board game called The Labyrinth, as well as a figure of the Goblin King, both of which Sarah had kept on her bedroom desk, and both of which had burned in the fire that had destroyed the old house.

Robert had contacted his ex-wife, and Linda told him she’d picked up the game and the figure at a toy shop in Bonn; bless her heart, she’d gone to Germany to see if there was anything to be learned. But the shop was closed, its owner retired, the remaining stock sold off. Still, Robert sensed some kind of connection. Irene, who had seen the Goblin King figure in Sarah’s bedroom many times, swore the man at the party had been dressed exactly the same. So if there had indeed been contact with this man when Sarah was fifteen, had _The Labyrinth_ provided some pretext? Was this a stranger who had joined Sarah in her amateur theatrics? But Rosebriar Hollow was a small town, the Williamses were well-known, and anyone who had seen Sarah cavorting with a strange man would have immediately alerted Robert and Irene.

Irene had reminded Robert of one notable incident: during the summer of 1986, when Sarah was fifteen, she had abruptly redecorated her room and given away many of her childhood toys; perhaps most significantly, Sarah had put into storage both The Labyrinth board game and the figure of the Goblin King. She’d even overhauled her entire wardrobe, giving away her dress-up costumes and ruffled, ren-faire clothes. By the time she’d begun her sophomore year of high school that fall, she’d seemed like a different kid. And Irene could trace this transformation to one night in particular, the night she and Robert had gone out for their anniversary, leaving Sarah to babysit Toby. Sarah had been late getting back to the house that evening—she’d arrived in her medieval fantasy dress, soaked to the skin—and had thrown a screaming adolescent temper tantrum. Robert and Irene had almost missed their dinner reservation. But they’d arrived home at midnight to find all well, Sarah calm, Toby sound asleep in his crib. It was the next morning, Irene insisted, that Sarah had announced her plans to redecorate her room.

“Don’t you remember?” Irene pressed. “We never had any trouble with her after that. It was like she grew up overnight.”

And now, Robert wondered: what had delayed Sarah getting home that summer evening? Clearly, she’d been out play-acting. Had the strange man been there? Had he, God forbid, come to the house later, when Sarah had been home alone, baby-sitting? The images this conjured in Robert’s mind were unsettling and horrible. But still, common sense prevailed: Sarah had been fine—more than fine. Indeed, whatever had happened that night seemed to have caused some epiphany. As Irene said, it was like Sarah had matured in a day and rarely, if ever, looked back. So why would she, at almost 22 years old, run off with a man dressed as a character from one of her childhood games?

There were too many pieces, and nothing quite fit together, no matter how hard Robert tried.

Irene had provided all the love and support and sympathy a man could want; she and Sarah had never been close, but Irene took her role as stepmother seriously, and she did worry about Sarah’s safety. Recently, though, she’d begun to take a more cynical view of the whole affair. It was clear to her, she said, that Sarah had planned her disappearance down to the last detail; moreover, she’d departed in a way that was sure to cause her family the maximum amount of stress and anxiety. She was, Irene declared, “punishing us.”

Robert’s burden of guilt added to his gloom. Irene had been planning to have her parents move into the house for the summers: they would live most of the year in North Carolina, but come back to upstate New York during the hottest months. They had put their house in Rochester on the market, and Irene had furnished an in-laws’ apartment over the garage for their use. She and Robert had said nothing about this to Sarah, but Sarah had discovered it by accident when she’d gone up to air out the apartment. Right before she’d left for Oneida, she’d confronted Robert. He’d tried to reassure her, but Sarah’s consternation had been palpable: Irene’s parents strongly disliked her, and Sarah had felt she would no longer be welcome in the house. And that had been their last conversation, save a handful of phone calls and email messages. Maybe this hadn’t been the sole reason for Sarah’s departure, but almost certainly it had been a contributing factor—she’d alluded to as much in her letter to him.

The horrible irony was that after all the uproar, Irene’s parents had not moved in after all. They’d sold their house in Rochester at a good profit, but rather than come back to New York during the summers, they’d bought a time-share condominium in Bar Harbor with another couple. The apartment over the garage was still furnished but unoccupied, save its use for occasional overnight guests.

On the kitchen counter, the baby monitor crackled to life with the sound of energetic fussing. Meredith was awake and had discovered either that her stomach was empty or her diaper full, or both. Robert hastened up the stairs to see if Irene needed any help.

(ii)

He spent the day in resolute activity: minding Meredith so that Irene could eat breakfast and get her shower, helping Irene take down the last of their holiday decorations and pack them away into storage bins for another year. After lunch, he got Toby bundled up and drove him into Rosebriar Hollow, where the creek was frozen and kids were skating. Toby was a small blond terror on his hockey skates, tearing up and down the ice, causing Robert to laugh out loud, something he did so rarely that he’d almost forgotten the physical sensation; laughter now felt to him like trying to speak a foreign language.

A few other parents approached him with their usual mixture of sympathy and discreet inquiries. Any word from Sarah? Was he still employing that detective? Were there any new leads? Was the detective making any headway? Everyone had at least one suggestion to offer: had Robert tried this, or looked into that? Or explored some other possibility? There was that person who might know something; had Robert spoken with him, or her? Robert would nod, yes, those all were things that had occurred to him, or to Irene, or to Linda, or to the detective. But thank you for the suggestion. Then his neighbor or friend or client would nod and smile, drifting over to say hello to some other acquaintance, and Robert would be left alone to brood.

People mostly had been kind, for which he was grateful. If people blamed him—or Irene, or Linda—for the loss of his daughter, finding some fault with her upbringing, they kept those thoughts to themselves. To his face, anyway, nobody blamed Sarah herself; she’d been a good, steady, intelligent kid, so none of them could say: oh, that slut, that crazy, irresponsible girl; what else could be expected of a kid like that? Still, Robert derived some amusement from people’s struggle to find words of socially acceptable condolence. What did you say to someone whose child had vanished under such improbable circumstances? Sarah’s disappearance lacked the finality of death—as awful as it was, at least society provided structure for the expressions of sympathy. People whose children had been abducted required a different kind of support. But when a young adult vanished without a trace, and willfully severed all ties with her life, what then?

Robert stayed at the creek-side, oblivious to the cold and his own discomfort, until at last Toby grew tired and hungry enough to want to go home. Robert and Irene had done their best to shelter Toby from the worst of their suspicions about what had happened to Sarah, and now Robert realized with a spasm of pain and regret that Toby seemed to have lost all curiosity about his older sister. He hadn’t mentioned her name for weeks, not even asking Robert and Irene if Sarah would come home for Christmas.

(iii)

After dinner, Robert cleaned the kitchen while Irene got Meredith bathed and settled for the night. He helped Toby with his bath and read bedtime stories to him until it was time for lights-out. Irene had vanished into her craft room; Robert could hear the quiet, rhythmic thrum of her sewing machine. He wandered back down to his office, determined to tidy up the place: the materials related to Sarah were threatening to overwhelm his work files, and Robert was concerned about losing important paperwork. He forced himself into motion and made decent headway before his emotional energy ebbed away. He gathered up the neglected Sunday paper, planning to finish reading it into the living room before it was time for sleep.

His gaze fell on the supplement, and he picked it up, curious at the texture of the unusual paper: it had a thick, heavy quality, like something that might have been used in another century, more like fabric than paper. Robert turned over the slim packet, finding no identifying marks; oddly enough, the paper had been sealed with neat stitches of thread.

He used the tip of his scissors to cut one of the stitches and tugged out the thread. Setting the packet on the desktop, he unfolded the wrapping. Inside was more of the same paper, rolled into a scroll and tied with string. Robert cut the string and unrolled the paper, almost crying out in shock, his astonishment leavened with a simultaneous surge of fury at himself for ignoring this item all day.

The first piece of paper was a pen-and-ink sketch. Robert would recognize Sarah’s work as surely as he would have recognized her voice, and he dropped into his chair, shaking in such violent tremors that he kept losing his hold on the paper. The picture was a charming rendition of a baby, about Meredith’s age, a plump, round-faced child with a startling expression and an impudent shock of black hair. She had those peculiar upturned eyebrows; the resemblance to Sarah could not be mistaken. This, then, was her child, and whatever mysterious transformation Sarah had undergone, the condition had been passed along to the infant girl.

The second page was a letter, addressed to him. Sarah’s strong, assured handwriting had not changed. Tiny spots of ink here and there suggested she’d written the letter with an old-fashioned fountain pen, but otherwise it was her hand, full of its idiosyncratic spikes and swirly loops, the product of her lifelong fascination with calligraphy. Robert made a mad, frantic scrabble for his reading glasses.

Words jumped off the page in a blur, and he had to force himself to still his hands, to read the letter through from beginning to end, frustrated that there wasn’t more, but feeling for the first time in fifteen months something akin to relief.

 _Dear Dad_ , the letter began, as if Sarah were writing home from abroad or sending him an email from Oneida, _I’m sorry for disappearing on you. I know you’re worried sick about me, and I know it’s pointless to tell you to not to worry, but I’m going to ask you anyway. Please don’t worry about me. Whatever you’re doing to try to find me (and I know you are), please stop. You won’t find me. I’m sorry to have done this to you. I wanted to at least write to you and let you know I’m okay._

_I’m actually more than okay; I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life. I have a baby now—she’s six months old, and her name is Elisabeth. We call her Lizzie. She’s beautiful. I know you’re wondering: so, yes, I was pregnant when I left Oneida. But that’s not the reason I left, at least not the whole reason. I went away to marry the only man I could ever love, the only man I could ever be happy with. Unfortunately, marrying him has meant giving up everything else, but if I had to do it over again, I’d make the same decision in a heartbeat._

_I’m sorry this is strange; the circumstances are bizarre to say the least. Please believe that I’m loved, I’m safe, I’m happy. I didn’t vanish to hurt you or because I hate you (or Irene) or because I had some kind of breakdown. I haven’t been kidnapped or forced into doing anything. I hope that one day I can see you in person and explain—as soon as I’m able to, I will, but it’s going to take time._

_Please give my love to Irene and hug Toby for me. I see you have a baby girl now—_

Good God! Robert thought. She knew about Meredith! How? How had she found out? Clearly she must still have some contact, some ability to get news from home, which suggested she wasn’t being kept against her will—maybe she was living nearby, if not in the United States, than perhaps in Canada.

_—she looks like a little cutie! Irene must be thrilled. I’m so happy for you, Dad. I know one kid can’t replace another, but she’ll be someone for you to love, someone who can love you in return, if you let her. Please don’t neglect her because you’re worrying about me._

_I’ll write again some other time, but I can’t promise when. I’m sorry there’s no way for you to write back to me—maybe one day there’ll be a way for us to communicate, but I haven’t figured it out yet. Be patient, and when you least expect it, there’ll be a letter from me on your doorstep._

_I know you’re afraid for me, and I know I’m asking you to take a lot on faith, but one day, hopefully, I’ll be able to explain everything._

_I love you so much. You’ll always be the Best Dad Ever._

_—Sarah_

Robert read and re-read the letter. Her words—and they were hers without question, her writing style came through as clearly as her penmanship—allayed some fears, but only raised others. He sat in the chair, studying the sketch of his granddaughter. At last, he could feel himself smiling. He debated telling Irene about the letter, but for some reason he didn’t think she’d take it well. He could anticipate all her reactions: anger, disbelief, incredulity, fear, shock, worry. Robert didn’t want to add any fuel to the fire of resentment Irene had always borne against Sarah. No, they’d all had too much strife—why add more, when there was no easy remedy? This would be Robert’s secret. He tucked the letter and the sketch into a folder, which he stashed in the back of a cabinet drawer full of identical folders. Irene never came in the office, so hiding the letter in plain sight seemed the wisest strategy.

Robert clicked off his desk lamp and, whistling, went to the kitchen to fix himself an evening snack.

**To be continued…**

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter replaced (minor edits), 1-18-17.

_Epilogue_

The instrumental ensemble finished its performance with a lively flourish, and the audience inside the pavilion burst into applause. The musicians stood to take their bows. The applause died down in gradual stages, replaced by the jabber of conversation and periodic bursts of laughter. Members of the audience began standing, helping themselves to refreshments or strolling around to stretch their legs.

“That was marvelous,” Sarah told Queen Inula.

The older woman beamed. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying the festival,” she said.

The two royal families sat in the specially-designated balcony overlooking the audience and the raised platform where the musicians performed. The entire pavilion was open to the elements, and the heady perfume of summer flowers in their full glory wafted through, lending its own intoxication to the delights of the music. The players of Vitis might not have been the virtuosos of Aves, but their music possessed a warmth and feeling that Sarah appreciated more than inhuman technical perfection.

She gave Jareth’s hand a squeeze. “More wine?” she suggested.

He beamed a smile that went straight through to her core. “Anything for my lady queen.”

When he’d stepped away, Sarah leaned towards Prince Agrostis and said, “So, how is that dwarf faring?” She made the question casual, as if she were only inquiring into the health of a passing acquaintance.

Agrostis told her, “There’s a family out in the countryside with a farm, and they said they’d take him in. He’s been a good worker for them. He has his own cottage on the property, his own garden, and a stream where he can fish. He still can’t remember anything, but he can speak simple sentences now, and he’s learning more words every day.”

Sarah nodded. “That’s excellent. I’m so happy you were able to find a home for him. I would have hated to see him sent to the salt plain for no other reason than being ugly.”

Agrostis said, “We hate to think of anyone being sent to the salt plain for that or any reason.”

Sarah settled back into her seat, and she maintained an innocent expression when Jareth returned with the wine, thought she could tell she wasn’t fooling him for an instant—he was too old, too wise, too goblin, and he knew her too well. Yet he was quite happy to maintain their little fiction, handing her the goblet with another of his knee-melting smiles.

They’d been in Vitis a week now for the flower festival, a holiday of touring the countryside at leisure, everywhere enjoying flowers, staggering in their variety and quantity; eating, drinking, and soaking in the music of the kingdom’s most talented singers and players. The guest quarters in the royal palace were modest, the luxuries the royal family could offer were on a very small scale compared to Aves. But there was also humor, genuine laughter, companionship, and pleasure that could be enjoyed without having to maintain a constant social mask, a stilted performance.

Much to Sarah’s amazement, Jareth had passed the week without so much as one complaint or even a moment of mockery. While he hadn’t exactly befriended anyone, he derived an obvious pleasure from the company of old Rumex, with whom he shared a droll sense of humor, and young Agrostis, with whom he shared a love of music. It helped, Sarah thought, that Agrostis looked up at Jareth—figuratively if not literally—with respect and awe, bordering on worship. From Jareth’s point of view, that was an excellent state of affairs all around.

As if to underscore the bond that had developed between the two families, Agrostis and Marsilea were dressed in garb created from Jareth’s and Sarah’s coronation finery. Marsilea wore a simple summer gown of purple silk, and Agrostis an elegant suit of teal blue.

Now they all sat together, drinking and relishing the beauty of the evening. Vitis at midsummer enjoyed a long, lingering period of twilight between sundown and full darkness, and Sarah gazed out across the capital city—a small town, really, compared to Phoebetria, but possessing its own special charm—to the countryside that lay beyond, admiring the sky, still full of dusky pinks and lavenders, patches of pale blue-green, the clouds edged with gold. She inhaled and exhaled, her fingers twined through Jareth’s, feeling that she could not have known a greater possible happiness.

A shout of laughter startled her from her reverie. Young Delonix, now an impudent two-year-old, had helped himself to a flower from one of the many arrangements set up in the royal box. With great solemnity, he toddled over and presented a lovely peach-colored rose to Lizzie. His parents and grandparents made cooing noises of encouragement.

Lizzie, just shy of her first birthday, took the flower with an expression of equal gravity. As the adults watched, she floated the rose up into the air, then down the back of her head, where her black hair wrapped around the green stem until the flower was fastened into a secure braid. Everyone applauded when the feat of magic was finished. Delonix gazed at Lizzie with aquamarine eyes full of fascination and longing.

“Uh-oh,” said King Rumex. “I suspect our young prince has lost his heart.”

“Not so soon,” Sarah laughed, and Jareth scooped up Lizzie, settling her on his lap with paternal propriety. Sarah hadn’t missed the small burst of panic that had flashed through her husband’s eyes. “They’re both a little young to be thinking of marriage contracts.” The next section of the concert began, and for a while everyone was too transported by the music to think of much else.

(ii)

The performance had ended, and the royal families were strolling through the palace, reluctant to let such a splendid night end, when a commotion interrupted their lazy perambulation.

“What could it be?” murmured King Rumex.

A moment later, a young woman in robin’s egg blue came whirling in, breathless with excitement. Sarah felt her body grow tense, a reflex she couldn’t quite control—after last winter, she thought she would never view the colors of Aves with equanimity.

The messenger, another of those androgynous young boyish girls, handed a small scroll to Queen Inula.

“Your Majesty, it gives me great pleasure to bring to you good tidings from the Kingdom of Aves. On this day, our beloved monarch, Queen Petronia, has given birth to a healthy infant girl: Thalassina, daughter of Petronia, daughter of Eucissa, daughter of Rhea, daughter of Numida.”

The adults made appropriate murmuring noises of approval, and Queen Inula said with a smile, “Please convey my sincerest congratulations to my kinswoman, Queen Petronia. We wish nothing but blessings upon her and her new daughter.”

After the messenger had departed, King Rumex sighed, “I suppose that’s us, attending a naming ceremony sometime next year.”

Fondly, Inula told him, “You’ll survive, you old crosspatch.”

“We survived Petronia’s coronation, we can survive anything,” said Marsilea.

Sarah tried not to giggle: Thalassina, what a mouthful, especially every time the girl’s ancestry had to be invoked. She couldn’t help hoping the child was blessed with her father’s looks and her mother’s intelligence. Then the laughter burst out of her, like an ill-timed fart, and in a twinkling, the others were also convulsing with mirth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sarah gasped. “I couldn’t help it.”

“No worries,” Agrostis assured her, wiping his face.

A maid had brought wine, and Queen Inula proposed a toast.

“To Princess Thalassina, daughter of Petronia, et cetera. The best of good fortune to her.”

Jareth muttered, “She’s going to need it.” Sarah nudged him, and they all raised their goblets in salute to the new princess.

(iii)

“The termagant has her heir. The rocks and stones of Aves will be singing Petronia’s praises. The poppinjay will be insufferable.” They were back in their rooms, Jareth tossing Lizzie up and down.

“Don’t be such a cynic,” Sarah scolded. “I seem to recall someone melting like almond butter when his daughter was born.”

Humming a melody, Jareth said, “Lizzie is the most beautiful princess of all.”

“No arguments there.”

“And she’s not getting married until she’s at least forty or fifty. Or a hundred.”

Sarah laughed, giving him a kiss. “Ooh, who’s being the paranoid papa?” He kissed her back, and Sarah said, “Though she could do a lot worse than Delonix. We’d have some beautiful grandkids—”

“Sarah, I do _not_ want to contemplate grandfatherhood.”

“—and I wouldn’t mind having Agrostis and Marsilea as in-laws.”

Jareth grunted.

Smiling at his expression, Sarah added, “Don’t worry; you won’t have to give her up for a long time.”

“Maybe ever,” Jareth said.

Sarah asked, “Don’t you want her to be with someone she loves?”

“She already is.” Jareth kissed Lizzie on the cheek. “Aren’t you, my goblinkins?” She gazed into his eyes, then let out a loud, penetrating wail.

Sarah burst out laughing. “She’s spoken her mind.” She took Jareth’s hand and reminded him, “I wouldn’t be kept apart from the man I wanted… can you see Lizzie being any different?”

“I suppose not,” he grumbled, bouncing Lizzie until she quieted.

“Love is more important than anything, after all,” Sarah reminded him.

“Even I can’t argue with that,” said Jareth, and he reeled her in for another kiss.

**The End**


End file.
